


It Only Hurts When I Breathe

by oatrevolution



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Gen, Protective!Thor, amnesiac!Loki, general weirdness, physical handicaps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:03:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oatrevolution/pseuds/oatrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor dreams that he is standing amongst silver trees hung with golden apples.</p><p>(A fill for the kinkmeme, based on this prompt http://norsekink.livejournal.com/7418.html?thread=14757370#t14757370 )</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude: The Fall

Without the Bifrost, without magic, without a single redeeming scrap of light—falling without any of these is uncontrolled, unstoppable.  He spins, he turns; he closes his eyes and presses his hands to his face.  The Universe presses in against his skull, begging to be let in, its fingers _tap-tap-tap_ at the base of his neck.

 

_Lo-ki, I’m home!_

 

To be home; isn’t that the most cursed wish, to say please, please let me go home.  Let this trip be a loop and go back to Asgard and everything will be okay.  It will be okay.  It has to.  Certainly it can’t get any worse.

 

_Finally where I belong, where I belong—_

 

But what is this, the spinning cosmos, and voices whisper in his ear things that he does not understand, and other words that he understands too well.

 

_Traitor_

_TraitorLiar_

_TraitorLiarFatherMother_

_TraitorLiar nobody wants you, nobody wants you to be their king_

_TraitorLiar why would FatherMother accept you as their child?_

_TraitorLiar the monster_

_TraitorLiaruglyhateful—speakingcryingcringing_

_TraitorLiar what about your brother?_

_TraitorLiarlovingbrother—GoldenWarriorlovingbrother_

 

Loki remembers thinking, _That’s stupid_.  As much as you can say ‘that’s stupid’ when the universe itself is pulling open your head and fitting its nails in the cracks, and tentacles of thought push through the socket of your eye and surely there should be death, surely he should die from this, his brain collapsing into a black hole, marker for future civilizations, and someone whispers _it doesn’t work like that_ and then suddenly—

 

_Loki, no!_

_GoldenWarriorlovingbrother_

_Where I belong?_

_Traitorliar_

_And everyone lies so prettily_

 

—suddenly the ground is here, everything is here, all of everything in the universe is here in front of his face and he tries to catch himself, he does, but his brain is already leaking across the back of his ears, the dark, goopy black thoughts still coming out of one of the Universe-holes, and he falls that last little bit, almost nothing after the huge distance that came before, and his legs give out and his head cracks a rock with a horrible _thwock_ and _ow that_


	2. Act I: The Brightest White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would Heimdall keep looking if there is no hope?

Heimdall says, “Be at peace.  Time will tell.”  Heimdall says, “Be patient.  I will send word once I have some.”

 

Thor says, “ _Patience?_   What time have I for _patience_ when the situation only grows more uncertain?”  He wants to turn a table over, for old times’ sake, but relents and only kicks the leg.  The table grunts but is otherwise unharmed.

 

Silence grows in the room after his outburst.  He waits, and he waits, and he waits, and still nothing happens.  Nobody comes forth to calm him, to lay a slender hand on his shoulder.  Nobody dares to say, “Patience, brother,” a smirk on their lips, daring Thor to continue his tirade.

 

No.  His hopes fall.  His brother does not return—has not appeared outside the unstable pocket of the bifrost that he trapped himself in, and though Thor waits, and watches, and finds new gods to pray to, there is still no word of his brother.

 

Heimdall says, “Another visit, my Prince?”

 

“Can you see anything?” Thor asks, and he’s a child again, a boy looking up at Heimdall in wonder.  He and Loki used to whisper to each other at night—under the covers, so Heimdall could not see them—of made-up adventures featuring their parents, and when Odin failed to rescue the fair damsel, Heimdall always filled the gap.  To the child that is Thor, Heimdall has the power to do anything.

 

“Not yet,” Heimdall says, and he is very kind, not to tell Thor to leave him be.  “But I am watching, Son of Odin.  If not for Lady Frigga, then for our King, who visits me each morning for news, and if not for him, then for you, my Prince, you who come every spare minute.  I seek the cosmos for visions of your brother, and when he arrives, the news will be swift to reach your ears.”

 

“Is he close, then?” Thor asks, letting his hopes rise.

 

“None can say,” Heimdall says.  “Since being patient is obviously not your strong suit, might I suggest you tidy your brother’s things, so they may be more easily moved?  I will send for you when I have news.”

 

It is a dismissal, and so Thor leaves, watching regretfully as the edge of the Bifrost recedes past his shoulder.  He will do as Heimdall asks; he will put Loki’s room to order and wait there, where Loki should be sent when he appears.

 

Should be—should be but for the treason, but for the attempted murder, but for the nearly accomplished genocide.  Should be but for the monster bubbling up through his brother’s mouth.  He is not that way, Thor tells himself.  He is _not_.  We will get him back, and I will show him how to be Loki again.  I lost him once to my own arrogance and stupidity; I will not lose him again to his bitterness and anger.

 

Everything will be as it should be.  If he has to, Thor will spend the rest of his life fixing what has gone wrong.  He won’t stop until the day he dies.

 

The halls are crowded—even in Loki’s remote chambers, he can hear the people laughing and chattering.  There is a great feast tonight, supposedly to honor the warrior Ernsolf, but there have been many feasts of late and nobody is fooled.  Every feast celebrates the Allfather, King once more; every feast celebrates the Bifrost, and how its destruction narrowly avoided the city; every feast celebrates Thor, his exile and miraculous return, the daring battle on the edge of the bridge, the quick thinking to destroy it.

 

Every feast celebrates the loss of Loki, the fall of the mad king, the crooked boy, the sly trickster gone mad with his brother’s success.  Every feast celebrates the tragedy, and not the hope.

 

That is what Thor thinks.  He no longer cares to attend any feasts.

 

Odin says, “The trauma may have killed him.  It would perhaps be… better if it has.”  Odin says, “He is a traitor.  Asgard will not accept him again.”

 

“Like it accepted him in the first place!” Frigga cries.  Her eyes are red from weeping.  “Odin Allfather, do not _dare_ say such things about your _son_.”

 

He is alive, Thor tells himself.  He must be.  Loki would not let the Bifrost kill him.

 

Sif says, “Didn’t he jump off?”  Hogun keeps the Warriors Three from Thor, most times, but Sif still visits, still comes to stand by his side when he stares out over the cosmos.  “He probably wanted to die,” she says, and Thor wants to shout at her for speaking of Loki in the past tense.

 

 _He is alive._   Would Heimdall keep looking if there is no hope?

 

“I will find you,” Thor vows.  “Don’t give up hope, brother.”

 

Only the curtains and Loki’s books are present to hear him, and they are silent.  The distant sounds of drinking and laughter bleed through the walls.  Heat rushes up his throat and burns in his eyes; Thor seizes a book and sits down, tries to read past his grief, but he does not understand this book, this complicated magical text.  He is too stupid.

 

Loki probably knows it by heart.

 

&

 

Such pain pushes aside the mind, living in every bone, every nerve, throbbing and pulsing and threatening to pop his eyes from his skull.

 

He wants to scream, but he can only moan, only fight to move his fingers, and he can barely move his limbs.  His arm flops like a dead fish and his fingers twitch.  He tries to breathe.  He cannot breathe.

 

“Oh my god!” somebody screams.  It sounds female—but he cannot breathe, he is choking on blood and the pain, _he cannot breathe_.  “Oh my god, Mike, call the police, get an ambulance!”

 

Air is too heavy.  It’s crushing his chest.

 

A girl—it’s a girl, youth written all over her face, and the pain screams and screams and he’s so dizzy.  He just wants to sleep.  He opens his mouth and all that limps out is a thin cry.

 

“Hold on,” the girl says, yanking a hooded shirt over her head.  She wads it up into a ball and screams, “Mike, _tell them to hurry!_ ”  The girl wriggles the cloth under his neck and pain shoots down his spine in burning needles, but he gasps and suddenly some air trickles down his throat.  He tries to squirm and can’t.  His limbs are so heavy.

 

“Can you talk?” the girl asks.  She reaches out and takes his hand.  He can barely feel her touch.  “Listen to me, sir, just listen, all right?  You’re going to be okay.  Mike is getting help.  You’ll be all right.”

 

She doesn’t believe it, _he_ doesn’t believe it, gravity is going to suffocate him and seal his lungs shut before any help will arrive.

 

“ _Mike!_ ” she screams.  “Stay with me, Renaissance Man,” she orders, her thin black hair falling over her forehead, and he thinks _Renaissance Man?_ before the pain steals all the words, digging deep into his brain with cruel fingers and pulling his spinal cord out through his teeth.

 

&

 

Thor doesn’t usually dream—or if he does, in the morning he doesn’t remember.  Loki used to tell him all about his dreams when they were small, his eyes lighting up and his fingers sketching pictures in the air.

 

But Thor’s dreams, if they exist, are presumably uninteresting and uninspired.  He wouldn’t argue with anybody if they said so—before all of this, before going to Midgard, before Loki’s fall, he would have said that dreams are stupid.

 

Now he’s not so sure.

 

The night word finally comes, Thor manages to make it back to his room before falling asleep.  He brings the heavy spellbook with him and tries to work his way through another chapter, puzzling over all the words he doesn’t know.  Maybe magic will help save Loki where all of his brute strength and persistence have failed.

 

He can’t focus.  The words blur in front of his eyes and finally he nods off with the book propped up on his knees, his fingers just brushing the corner of a page.

 

Thor dreams that he is standing amongst silver trees hung with golden apples.  The sky is a dark, steel grey and the lines of silver branches stand out against the clouds.  His armor glints in the low light and his crimson cloak weighs down his shoulders, but Mjolnir is nowhere to be found.  He knows instinctively that if he calls, she will not answer.

 

The silver apple trees stretch into the distance, as far as he can see.  There are no sounds except for his own breathing and the far-off, sweet song of a bird.  Not even a hint of wind stirs the leaves, and the golden apples hang still on their stems.

 

He doesn’t know what to do except search out the bird.  It seems like the only other living creature in this grove except himself and suddenly he can’t stand to be alone.

 

Thor sets out towards the bird.  It sings on, a strange, haunting melody that he swears he knows.  He thinks that he’s known this song since he was born.  He can feel it humming in his veins, a song of life and death, golden apples on a silver tree, dark hair tangled with gold.

 

He walks for hours—it feels like hours, though the light doesn’t change and the trees don’t move.  The bird keeps singing and somehow he doesn’t begrudge the time it takes, walking through these woods.  It’s… strangely peaceful.  The soil is soft and dark under his feet.  Soothing.

 

Finally, he sees a flash of bright blue among the leaves.  The bird hops out onto a branch, its head tilting, dark, beady eyes staring directly into his face.  Its tail is long, plumage so bright and blue that it almost hurts his eyes.

 

The bird twitters and flutters to another tree.  “Wait,” Thor calls, and follows after it, stepping over a silver root.

 

The small creature sings a few notes and flies ahead into the silver trees, Thor trailing behind, and suddenly he emerges from between silver trunks into a clearing.  In the center sits the largest tree of all, its branches stretching far over his head, laden with golden apples.

 

A woman sits at the base of the tree, her toga light and airy, swirled around her shoulders and hips.  Her feet are bare.  Her long silver hair has been strung with strange flowers, tiny little buds as blue as her bird’s feathers.  A man rests by her side, his head in her lap; his dark hair is soaked with blood.

 

“ _Loki!_ ” Thor screams, stepping forward.  His shout is swallowed quickly among the leaves.

 

The woman looks up.  Her golden eyes slice straight through him.  “Were you led here?” she asks, and trails her fingertips down Loki’s still face.  He doesn’t look like he’s breathing.

 

“That’s my brother!” Thor cries.  He starts across the meadow again but the woman holds up a hand and stops him.  The wind comes up suddenly, swirling at the back of his neck, and the branches of the great tree creak.

 

“Hmm,” says the woman.  She narrows her eyes and reaches up with one bloodstained finger to tap the bird’s tiny breast.

 

That song again—he can hear it in his heart, sliding under his skin and lingering at the base of his skull.  He feels a bit mad with fright.  “Please,” he says desperately.  “He needs help.  Don’t let him die.”

 

The wind picks up, and though the woman watches him, she allows him to approach.  Thor falls to his knees and this _is_ Loki, his hand limp in the pale grass.  He gathers it up and holds it tightly, squeezing the cold flesh.  “Don’t die,” he whispers.  “Heed me, brother.  Live.  _Live_.”  He leans down and presses a kiss to Loki’s wide forehead.  “Your brother needs you.  Stay for me, please.”

 

The woman stands, her thin skirt slipping against her skin.  The great tree bends suddenly, one huge bough curling and reaching towards her, and she plucks an apple with no effort.  She holds it out.  “Take it,” she says.

 

He does, cradling it in his palm.  Loki is so still, not even a flicker beneath his eyelids.  “What must I do?” Thor asks, and he can feel his anguish, see it shudder in the air.

 

“Go.”  Her hair slides over her forehead in a perfect curl.  The bird starts to sing again and settles into the grass beside Loki’s broken skull.  “Bring the apple to him.  Do you understand?”

 

The apple is cold in his hand.  The gold seems to draw all of the color from his skin.  “Will the apple save him?”

 

She looks down at Loki, so still and cold, and then back at Thor’s face.  “Perhaps,” she says, neutral.  “If he allows it.”

 

Thor wakes with a jolt, the silver apple trees melting away before his eyes, and the spellbook almost slips out of his lap.  He catches it and stands.

 

He doesn’t usually dream, but he can recognize a vision when he sees one.

 

It’s the middle of the night, stars stretching far above his head, but Heimdall will see him coming, Heimdall will look deep into the cosmos and he will See.  Thor knows this like he knows his own name.  The few servants about at this hour scuttle out of his way, eyes wide, and he couldn’t care less about the picture he presents, almost running down marbled hallways in yesterday’s rumpled clothes.

 

A horse to take him to the edge of the ruined Bifrost, the gates open without protest, and he rides like he has ridden few times before.  Rainbows flare beneath the horse’s hooves.  Please.  _Please_.

 

Heimdall waits for him, his sword out and braced.  For a moment, when he looks at Thor, his golden eyes are in the face of a woman with silver hair; but then he knows that though Heimdall may have powers similar to hers, his heart is not made of metal.

 

“Where is he?” Thor demands.  He slides out of the saddle.

 

“Midgard,” Heimdall says, voice deep, and adds, “He is badly hurt.  I do not know if he will make it through the night.”

 

“He will,” Thor says.  “He _must_.”  He thinks of the apple, wherever it hides, and for a moment he can feel its cool shape in his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I hope this is acceptable. Obviously there is more to the story, so stay tuned for more!


	3. Act II: The Iron Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pain is murk, clotting his brain with needles and old blood, forcing its way down his throat to fill his lungs.

“You saw him?” Odin asks, so steady, his eye for Heimdall and Heimdall alone.  Frigga sits at his side, her hands clenched in her lap, but tears shimmer on her face.

 

Thor quivers and fights not to rush forward.  “Father, he needs our _help_ ,” he says, voice too loud.  It bounces off the ceilings and comes back to his ears in a boom.  He soldiers on, because Loki _needs_ him, Loki will _die_ if Thor can’t get there, and he says, “Please.”

 

Odin snaps a glare at him—for a moment, he expects Odin to roar at him.  Years ago, it seems to him, Odin did just that to Loki.  He doesn’t know why he remembers such a small thing among his own fright and pain, moments away from being torn from Asgard like an unwanted child from its mother’s womb.

 

“He has landed,” Heimdall says.  He doesn’t even blink.  “But the Bifrost is powerful, and falling into it unprotected as he did has broken something.  He did not land easily and I fear that the blow to his head may kill him.”

 

“We must go!” Thor cries, unable to help himself, and he clenches his hands at his sides.  “Father, would you abandon Loki now, when he needs his family most?”

 

“He betrayed us,” Odin growls.  He looks out past Thor’s shoulders into nothing.  “He cannot be trusted; his actions could have destroyed Yggdrasil if he had continued.”

 

“Loki knew not what he did!” Thor says desperately.  “His mind was not well, Father, you cannot blame him for—”

 

“I can, and I will!” Odin explodes, standing.  He starts to pace, his cloak swirling about his heels, and Thor makes himself stand his ground.  Loki needs him.  He will not let his brother down, not now.  Not again.  “He is as much my son as you, Thor Odinson, and no son of Asgard may escape his just punishment for vile actions!”

 

“He is my _brother_ and I will not abandon him!”  His voice rises to the ceiling.  The servants can probably hear every word they shout.  “With or without your permission, Father, I _will_ be going to his side.”

 

Odin draws himself up, his chest swelling.  Thor braces himself.

 

“ _Enough!_ ” Frigga surges to her feet, her robe exposing her sandaled feet for a single moment.  She grasps her husband’s arm and draws him back.  “Enough,” she repeats, more quietly.  “This argument is pointless.”  Her bearing is every inch a queen, and as she turns to face Heimdall, Thor remembers her quiet strength.  His father may wear his armor for all to see, but Frigga has an iron core.

 

“My Queen,” Heimdall says, dipping his head.

 

“Heimdall, I trust that you will find a way to send my eldest son through the branches of Yggdrasil,” Frigga orders, cool and calm, her tears drying on her cheeks.  “Place him near my Loki’s side.  When he arrives, we will seek a method to return them both to Asgard, once my youngest son is well enough to make the journey.  Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, my lady,” Heimdall says, and bows.  He doesn’t even look at Odin.

 

Frigga nods.  “Search.  Find me a way to my son.”

 

Without a backward glance, Heimdall leaves the throne room.  The guards swing the doors shut behind him.

 

“Frigga,” Odin says warningly.

 

“Be silent,” she snaps, turning on him, her robe swirling about her legs.  “Do not underestimate a mother’s instinct to protect her children, Odin Allfather.  If you attempt to stop me, we will discover the strength of Asgard’s women.”  Thor has never seen her eyes so cold.

 

Odin bows to her stiffly and walks out.  Thor keeps quiet until the great doors have closed behind his father.  “Do you intend to save Loki?” he blurts out, stepping towards the dais.  “Honestly?”

 

She smiles, her lips quivering, and reaches out to hug him.  Even though she is so small and fragile in his arms, he is not fooled.  “Of course I do, my golden son,” she whispers.  “Your brother may believe that we care nothing for him, but I will kill anyone who touches him.”  She takes Thor’s hand and squeezes it.  “Bring him home, Thor.”

 

“But Father—” he begins.

 

“Your father will come around,” Frigga says firmly.  She steps away and straightens her clothes, smoothing down her skirts and twisting her hair at the back of her neck.  “He loves Loki.  He rescued a tiny, helpless babe and would not let me argue about keeping him.”  Her shoulders move in a graceful shrug.  “But he is disappointed, and he must remember to be a father, not just a king.”

 

Thor doesn’t know what to say to that.  Casting him out had been Odin the King; saving him had been Odin the Father.  He wonders about it, about Frigga seeing her husband choose between his children and Asgard.  And again Thor wonders if he could ever be king, or if the responsibility would slowly poison him.

 

Frigga collects herself and smiles at him.  Her lips only quiver a little bit.  “I’m sure Loki will be safe with you,” she says quietly.  “If any of us can convince him that we love him….”  She shakes her head, smiling ruefully and squeezing his hand.

 

&

 

Even collecting his most Midgardian clothes takes little time, and Thor is left to pace in his room.  Mjolnir sits patiently by the door and remains unaffected.

 

“What if he does not wish to see me?” he asks, stopping in front of the wardrobe to clutch at his hair.  He hadn’t even _thought_ of it.  Maybe Loki, injured as he is, would rather die than accept help from his brother who failed him.  In all the years they’ve spent together—so many centuries that he’s almost lost count—he’s never been able to make Loki do something he doesn’t want to do.

 

But the silver lady gave him the apple, and surely she wouldn’t have done that if she didn’t see some sort of hope to save his brother.  He doubts that she gives out apples to just anybody.

 

“He must have the golden apple,” Thor tells himself.  “Then he can abandon me on Midgard, he can be as angry as he likes and I won’t care.”  _Just save him_.

 

So by the time a guard arrives to fetch him, Thor has steadied his breathing and gathered up Mjolnir again.  It will be safer to bring her with him and hide her somewhere, just in case.

 

“Heimdall requests your presence,” says the guard.

 

“Thank you,” says Thor.  His fingers clench around Mjolnir for a moment before he makes himself relax.  Heimdall will have a way.  Heimdall will send him to his brother, and Thor will _make_ this right.  If he keeps at it, Loki will see.  Loki must appreciate tenacity.

 

The servants know something is wrong; they hide as Thor strides down the halls, missing his crimson cloak and his armor.  The news of Odin and Frigga’s strife has surely run through all of Asgard by now, as only the most worrisome gossip does.  And some will have guessed the cause—his friends must know, as they watch his family’s grief.  Frigga would only fight her husband over her sons.

 

 _He is only a frost giant,_ Sif says in his memory.  _Loki tried to_ kill _you, Thor.  Do you so easily forgive?_

 

Loki is my brother, Thor tells himself.  He is my little brother, and my oldest friend, and centuries ago my staunchest ally.  He was not himself, those months ago, and when he recovers I will have my best friend back.

 

Frigga meets him at the stables, her hair piled in a mountain of curls on the top of her head.  Pinning her locks away from her ear is a shimmering clip set with emeralds.  Thor remembers Loki saving up for months to buy it for her, talking Thor into accompanying him down to the jeweler’s shop—barely older than seven, physically, his hair curling aggressively over his forehead, clutching a purse filled with coins.  Loki presented it to her at dinner, carefully sliding it into place by standing on his chair, and Frigga kissed him and promised to wear it always.

 

Thor swallows past the sudden lump in his throat.

 

“Just bring him back,” Frigga says, getting up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.  Her eyes are watery.  “Be the brother I always knew you were, my lovely son.”

 

“I will, Mother.”  He gives her his best smile, bright and blazing.  “I promise.”

 

“Very well.”  Frigga steps away.  A hostler comes up with a horse and hands him the reins silently.  “Your father and I will wait anxiously for your return—you and your brother.”

 

“Of course, madam,” Thor says, bowing low.  He swings up onto the horse and settles Mjolnir onto his belt.  Her weight is a comforting certainty at his side, and she gives him the strength to ride out the gates without looking back at his mother.  With her at his side, he can pretend that Odin had come to see him off, and that Loki will be overjoyed to see him.

 

Heimdall is waiting at the edge of the Bifrost, his hands resting on his sword.  He watches Thor approach with calm, golden eyes.  “Odinson,” he says slowly.  “Are you prepared?”

 

Thor nods, swings off the horse.  “I am.”  His voice is strong, betraying no trace of his inner turmoil.  Loki would be proud.

 

The Gatekeeper blinks once and then nods, taking a step back from the abyss.  “Your lady mother has searched the weapons vault thoroughly, and together we have managed to imbibe my sword with enough power to send you to Earth.  The remaining energy of the Bifrost will get you there safely.”

 

“And Loki will be responsible for getting us back?”

 

“Yes.”  Heimdall looks over Asgard for a long moment, the towers reflected in his eyes, and then raises his sword.  “Your brother is in a large building called East Providence Hospital.  Hold onto her,” he adds, nodding at Mjolnir.  “I would hate for the energy to swipe her up and deposit her on some other realm.”

 

Thor pulls Mjolnir off his belt and holds her tightly in his fist.  She hums in his grip and for a moment he can taste electricity on the back of his tongue, sliding across the roof of his mouth.  He takes a deep breath.  “I am prepared, Heimdall,” he says brusquely.  “Take me to my brother before it is too late.”

 

Heimdall nods, says, “As you wish.”  He lifts his sword and places the flat against Thor’s shoulder, the metal cold even through his shirt.  “Be careful,” he says, and Thor barely has time to consider that this is the first time Heimdall has ever taken the time to wish someone well, because right then

 

the

 

world

 

stretches

 

clouds of stars, white and red and the barest smears of purple, light arcing out across the universe, down one branch and to the trunk

 

_(silver leaves and golden apples, and the blue bird showing him the way home)_

 

&

 

The pain is murk, clotting his brain with needles and old blood, forcing its way down his throat to fill his lungs.  He’s being held under water, water thick with sodden leaves and mud, and though he chokes and tries to thrash his limbs are cut off piece by piece, first the nails and then the knuckles and then the hands and the forearms and the elbow is separate—

 

Flashes of light push against his eyelids.  The immense weight will turn his skull to pulp, grind his grey matter into mush; the universe will scoop it up into its fingers and laugh as the juices dribble down its chin.

 

He tries to scream and the universe grabs him.  It claws at his jaws and shoves something into his throat, over his tongue, deep inside of him, and he chokes on it, tries to plead _oh please don’t do this please i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry_

 

Darkness enfolds him in her arms and holds him close, whispering nonsense in his ear, and finally the pain drifts away.

 

&

 

New Mexico looks nothing like this, and already he starts to fret.  Thor had been hoping, just a little bit, that perhaps Jane and her friends would have found Loki, that they would have been driving in the desert and rescued him.  But he does not recognize the trees and these tall rocky hills, cloaked in grey.  Below, a sea of stars is laid out in the valley, and he stares at it for a long moment before he realizes that it is a city.

 

He wouldn’t possibly be able to find Loki without Heimdall’s instructions.  East Providence Hospital—he can ask.  Jane took him to a hospital when she first hit him with her metal horse, and he thinks that he knows what they look like, at least enough to find one.

 

“I am a Son of Odin,” he says aloud.  “I search for my brother.  Let none stand in my way.”  With a determined nod, he starts off down the hill, pushing Mjolnir back into his belt.  He’ll have to hide her somewhere before he reaches the outskirts of the city.  Nobody would be able to make off with her, but he doesn’t much fancy breaking more government agencies to get her back.

 

Paths wind down the hill, through brush and trees.  Thor picks one that seems to go reliably downhill and makes his way towards the bright lights of the city.  I’m coming, Loki, he thought.  Wait for me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took much longer than I would have liked, but Real Life is determined to be difficult. Hopefully the next part will come more easily!


	4. Act III: The Blank Slate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly, Thor feels very empty and defenseless without Mjolnir. The last time he stood in a Midgardian hospital, he spent most of the time being knocked out and hit by cars.

The people of Midgard construct buildings with such lights that for a moment, stepping into the throne room of this hospital, Thor is blinded.  He squints and holds up his hand against the blaze; suddenly, he feels very empty and defenseless without Mjolnir.  The last time he stood in a Midgardian hospital, he spent most of the time being knocked out and hit by cars.

 

All the same, the people of these hospitals can probably protect Loki.  The thought is comforting.

 

Thor walks up to the woman sitting behind a great desk.  “I am looking for my brother,” he announces.

 

She blinks up at him and arches one eyebrow skeptically.  “Your brother?” she repeats.

 

“I was told that he was taken here for emergency care, madam.”  Thor does his best to smile at her, even if speaking of Loki’s hurt draws his heart into his throat.  “He…. He is my little brother.  Please.  I have to see him.”

 

The woman remains unimpressed.  “Sir, I can’t just let—”

 

“He’s tall,” Thor interrupts, “shorter than I am, but still tall.  He has green eyes and dark hair.  He fell on the mountain over there—” He points and waits for her nod of recognition.  “A friend told me that he is severely injured and unconscious.  Please, my lady, let me see him.”

 

After a moment, she purses her lips and picks up a plastic contraption, connected with a cord to a pad of numbers.  “I’m looking for a patient,” she tells the contraption.  “Possibly the John Doe from last night.  A man claiming to be his brother is here.”

 

“Can I see him?” Thor demands as she sets down the phone.  She nods, and a huge smile spreads across his face.

 

“Possibly,” she says quickly, holding up a finger.  “The police are here.  Your brother was hurt badly on the mountain, and there’s always an investigation for foul play.”

 

Thor doesn’t know what half of that means, to be honest, except that he may be able to see Loki soon.

 

&

 

“His name is Loki,” Thor says.  He smiles again.

 

The ‘police,’ it turns out, are two men in blue uniforms with firesticks on their hips.  One of them has a pad of paper and a pencil, and he carefully writes down what Thor has to say.  His friend is older, with silver hair, and in some way he reminds Thor of Odin.

 

“Like the god of mischief?” he says sharply.  His young comrade glances up at Thor, curiosity in his soft brown eyes.

 

“Yes,” says Thor honestly.

 

“Hmm.”  The older man glances at the notepad and says, “L-O-K-I.  Remember to tell the nurses so they can put it into the files, will you?”

 

Thor tries his best to sit patiently, his hands folded in his lap.  The woman from the front desk had shown them all into a small side room with pictures of bones on the walls, though the chairs are small and hard and he barely fits.  Diplomacy, he reminds himself.  Act like an honorable king and they will show you to your brother.

 

“Your parents university professors?” the old policeman asks suddenly.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“Do your parents love mythology?”  The old man has Odin’s same level stare, even with both of his eyes in his head, and despite himself Thor finds his eyes lowering.  “They have two sons and name them after Norse gods?”

 

“Our parents are… physicists,” Thor says, thinking of Jane and Erik.  Surely they would not mind if he uses them as inspiration.  “And anyway, Loki is adopted.”

 

The young man arches one eyebrow and writes that down, too.  Thor resists the urge to glare at him for his impudence.

 

“Very well.”  The old policeman sighs and gets to his feet, rubbing his hands together.  “God, I’m getting too old for this.  Come on, Thor, Loki’s brother.”

 

Thor lurches upright, almost sending the chair skidding in his haste.  “May I see him?”

 

And he does.

 

The hospital has three floors, and Loki is on the second, in a small room all to himself.  The little policeman stays by the moving box at the end of the hallway, just below the sign that says INTENSIVE CARE.  The older man takes Thor’s elbow and leads him along, strangely gentle, and finally stops and points.  “He’s in there,” he says.

 

Loki almost looks like he’s sleeping.  Some sort of tube has been pushed down his throat and a machine wheezes in the background with every rise and fall of his chest.  Somebody had shaved off his dark hair, and his cheekbones are eating up his face.  The side of his head is a mass of bandages.  His eyes are sunk into the flesh.

 

For one agonizing, endless moment, Thor feels the rain falling on his head, living again the moment when Mjolnir refused him, leaving him stranded on Midgard.  But this is worse, because it doesn’t matter if he shouts to the heavens and waves a weapon above his head.  Loki can’t hear him.

 

“Brother,” he whispers.  “ _Loki_.”  He pushes the door open and goes to his little brother’s side.  Little Loki, who used to creep into Thor’s bed when he had nightmares, pulling the sheets over their heads.  Frigga often found them huddled together, hands fisted in each other’s nightshirts.  Thor would wake up in the morning with his brother’s head over his heart, dark curls tickling his nose.

 

There is a plastic chair in the corner, but Thor doesn’t reach it.  His knees give out and he crumples to the ground at Loki’s bedside.  A large needle is taped to his hand; nevertheless, Thor gathers his brittle fingers between his own and holds on.  Loki is slim for a man of Asgard—not that, technically, he ever was one—but he has never been frail or broken.

 

In Asgard, tears are not exactly looked down upon, but neither are they common.  Thor has never cried like this, not even when he thought Loki dead.  At least dead, Loki would be free of pain, free of the mockery that had haunted his every step.  This is barely living.  This takes everything that is Loki and crushes it, destroys his little brother in a way that death never could.

 

Heimdall said, “I do not know if he will make it through the night.”

 

The silver lady said, “Bring the apple to him.”

 

Thor says, “I am sorry, Loki.  I am so sorry.”

 

&

 

A man in a white coat comes into the room after Thor has dried his eyes and fetched the chair.  Loki does not move, except for the horrible rattle of his chest as the machine forces air into his lungs.

 

“You are his brother?” the man asks kindly, coming to the foot of the bed.  He has a stack of papers cradled in his arms.

 

“Yes,” Thor says.  Loki’s skin feels like dried paper, and he lets his fingers linger on his forearm, hoping that somehow his life will transfer to Loki and he will wake.  But his eyes do not even flutter.  “What happened?”

 

The doctor finds another chair and sits down beside Thor, arranging the papers on his lap.  “He fell—or was beaten.  We could find no hand marks, but there isn’t a high cliff where he was found, either.”

 

“Who rescued him?”

 

“A pair of teenagers on a weekend hike.”  The doctor smiles wryly.  “The girl’s mother is a nurse, so she knew enough to keep him breathing while her boyfriend called for help.  Even so, we barely got him here in time, and they said that they didn’t see or hear anything.  Rainbows don’t make noise, apparently.”

 

Thor glances at Loki’s gaunt face.  Falling through space, completely unprotected—he is surprised that his brother yet lives.

 

“Anyway,” the doctor continues, “he struck his head quite badly.  His skull is broken and there was bleeding in the brain, and we had to do extensive surgery to save his life.  The brain damage has made breathing difficult, and though he hasn’t woken up yet to tell us, he may possibly have to learn how to walk again.”

 

“I don’t…”  He swallows, hard, and tries not to cry.  He is the Crown Prince of Asgard, and sobbing now will only prevent him from helping his brother.  “When will he wake?”

 

“The medication should keep him under for another twelve hours, to let his brain rest.  But after that we will lower the dose and see what he has to say.”  The man lets out a breath and looks first at Loki and then at the monitors beside his bed.  “Be prepared, though.  He may not come back.”

 

“I understand,” says Thor through the lump in his throat.

 

&

 

The pain has been muffled under thick grey blankets.  Already, he has tried to suffocate it three times, and it refuses to die.  Its huge mouth sucks the blankets down its throat, wetness soaking through the fabric.

 

He sits in the corner, huddled into himself, watching the pain in case it makes a move in his direction.  There is nowhere to run and he wants to see ahead of time, at least so he can scream and try to tear out its eyes—not that it has any.

 

He’s probably been here forever.  Time means nothing.  Minutes stretch into days and weeks into seconds, or perhaps he has been here for no time at all.  It is impossible, fighting the pain, trying to keep it from latching its gaping mouth into his throat.

 

His long hair hangs lank about his shoulders, sticking to his neck with sweat.  The curls are so stiff that they crackle when he moves, tumbling into his face, and pushing it back did nothing.  He pressed one shaking hand to his mouth and tries not to sob.  If he stays so scared, the fear will come to chew on the sinews of his heart.

 

The pain’s long fingers rend through the blankets, the weave snagging in its jagged nails.  He tries to scramble upright but his knees won’t support him.  He is so afraid.  The pain’s mouth is opening and closing, opening and closing, gnawing and snarling and its teeth appear, pressing through the blankets like a birth sack.

 

He wants to scream at it, to beg it to leave him alone, to leave this room and never come back.  It won’t listen.  Its legs bend and kick and it tears the blanket in two, rolling over, its mouth wide so wide and its eyes are wide, sightless holes.  The cords in his neck tighten so that he cannot scream.

 

The pain drags itself around the ground, its shoulders rolling and cracking, too many joints for a man, and its birdlike legs scrabble uselessly at the ground.  It hushes him, but its teeth are jagged, rolling into the back of its throat, and coated with its own clotted blood.  The grey skin is rent with long gashes—only muscles and no blood.

 

The pain says, “Shhhhh.”

 

He sobs and tries to cover his face.  The pain grabs his wrists and pushes them back.

 

&

 

Despite the late hour, Thor’s concern keeps him awake.  It helps that his seat is uncomfortable and his knees ache from sitting still for so long.  But he watches Loki’s face for hours, anxiously seeking a sign, any sign, that his brother yet remains somewhere under his taut skin.

 

A nurse comes in at some point in his interminable vigil, and through a tangle of medical terms he understands that she is slowly siphoning off the drug that is keeping Loki asleep.  “He may wake up in a few hours,” she tells him kindly.  She is short and plump, but her smile crinkles the corners of her eyes and Thor cannot help but trust her.  “We will be watching.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Thor says.  She beams at him and bustles out once more.

 

And so he waits, his hands clenched in his lap.  If he cannot help himself, he reaches out to take Loki’s hand in his, trying to reassure himself that his brother is real.  The pain of his shaved head and white bandages digs deep.

 

“Wake up,” he whispers.  He rubs Loki’s knuckles, feeling the bones shift under his skin.  “Please, brother, come back to me.  Let me take you home.”

 

If Loki hears him, he once more decides to be contrary.  Nothing happens as Thor would have wished.  He dreams of Loki waking, of Loki being happy to see him, of this terrible fall bringing his little brother back to him.  He dreams of hope and redemption, of pressing the golden apple into Loki’s frail palm and watching him heal.

 

None of this happens.  Thor would not be so lucky.

 

An hour and a half after the medication is removed, Loki’s face starts to twitch, and the hand without the needle curls against his side.  Thor speaks his name, reaches over to gently shake his shoulder, but Loki only moans, his lips cracked and dry.  Thor bites his nails; he wouldn’t have guessed that he would, in a time of crisis.

 

Loki’s hollow eyes flutter open, finally, and for a moment he stares blankly at the ceiling.  The green is so familiar and yet wilted, like a great, dying tree.

 

“Loki!” Thor cries, overjoyed, and lunges forward, bracing himself against the edge of the bed.

 

His brother takes one look at him, eyes widening in a way that would be comical if only it took place under completely different circumstances—and then he screams in terror, trying to scramble away.  One hand flies up to clutch at his head.

 

“Brother!  _Brother!_ ”  Thor tries to take his wrist, calm him down.

 

“ _Get away from me!_ ” Loki shrieks.  In the hallway, Thor can hear people running towards them, shouts between nurses and doctors.  The door bangs open, and Loki only screams more.

 

“Move, please!” begs the plump nurse, grabbing at his sleeves, but Thor tears himself free.

 

“What’s wrong with him?” he asks frantically.  The two policemen appear at his elbows and grab him, heaving him out of the way, and uniformed people immediately surge into the gap.  Loki’s screams are heartbreaking.

 

“Sir, calm down!”  One of the doctors dives in to hold Loki still, but his brother thrashes, frantic, and even in his shattered state he manages to send the man stumbling away.  “Sir!”

 

“ _Where am I?_ ”  Loki struggles to sit up and somebody else yells, “Security!  Get security in here!”

 

Thor stands there, in shock, his arms dangling limply in the policemen’s grasp.  For a moment, just before somebody plunges a needle into his brother’s shoulder, their eyes meet through the press of bodies.  He doesn’t see anger.  He can’t even find the remnants of jealousy.

 

He doesn’t know who I am, Thor realizes, and the jolt rattles down his spine and brings tears to his eyes.  He doesn’t know who I am.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only took a week longer than I wanted, etc etc. In my defense, I started a new anti-depressant and had Lasik surgery.
> 
> Question for y'all: would it be all right if this story eventually became Thor/Loki, or should I keep it general? It will work either way, but I should know soon for some character development stuff. Anyway, since this is not even really my story (kinkmeme prompt and all that) I figure you should have some input, whoever is reading this! So go ahead and tell me if you have a preference, I suppose.


	5. Act IV: The Stargazer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a man who cannot hide himself from the world, though he has no idea why this should be important.

Thor says, “I do not understand,” helpless, his hands curled together.

 

“I am sorry,” the doctor says, voice grave.  He has his clipboard again, clicking the cap of the pen absently, _clack click clack click clack_.  “We were afraid that this might happen.”

 

“But he doesn’t remember!” Thor protests.  His voice is rising, growing louder with his fear and confusion, but he cannot stop it.  Hysteria bubbles up in his throat and his eyes burn with unshed tears.  Convulsively, he glances over his shoulder, through the window in the door.  Loki is still awake, and the kind, plump nurse is with him, talking silently as she takes some blood.  His brother looks near tears himself.  “How can he not remember?  He—he has a very good memory, he’s very smart, he—”

 

“The blow to the head was quite severe,” the doctor says, very soft.  “The trauma likely buried most of his memories.  He may remember or he may not.  Be grateful that he can still speak.”

 

Thor covers his face with his hands.  He had been prepared for sadness, for anger, for shouts, but never for Loki to not be Loki.  He can’t wrap his mind around the concept; it is impossible to imagine Loki without his magic, his clever words, the soft, shy little boy who used to follow his big brother everywhere.

 

Loki does not know who Thor is.  He does not know of the time they spent together, centuries upon centuries.  He does not even know Thor’s name.

 

“I’m sorry.”  The doctor lays a gentle hand on Thor’s shoulder, and he peeks at him through his fingers.  The man has a stiff, sorry smile painted across his face.  “If you’d like, we can try again.”

 

At first, Thor can’t figure out what he means.  The nurse emerges from Loki’s room and discreetly hands off tubes filled with blood to another orderly.  Unlike the doctor, her smile is warm and sincere.  “Would you like to see him?” she asks.  “I’ll be there, just in case he gets confused.”

 

“Yes,” Thor says, swallowing past the lump in his throat.  He coughs and rubs at his face distractedly.  “Yes, I would like to see him very much.”

 

&

 

He is trying very, very hard not to panic.  The strangeness of this place weighs down on his chest; it feels as thought it is suffocating him.  He does not understand the beeping and the sharp things in his hand and the way the cold river that slips through his arm makes his body feel even heavier and clumsier than it already does.  More than a little, he wants to cry.

 

The door swings open.  The plump woman in the strange pink clothing gives him a large, warm smile.  She is much less terrifying than everything else, and he doesn’t quite understand why.  When she takes his hand to put tubes against the needle, she does it kindly, with the softest pressure against his wrist with her free hand.  She seems very… motherly.

 

(There is a connotation to that word that he cannot grasp, he cannot _reach_ it, what does it mean?)

 

But behind the nice woman is that giant of a man from when he first woke up—tall, broad, with wheat-gold hair brushing his shoulders and those anxious blue eyes.  The man looks at him like he expects something that he cannot give, that he does not understand.  It frightens him.

 

“Hello,” says the woman.  She comes over to rest her small hand on his shoulder.  Her hair is just as fluffy as the rest of her, brown and curly and comforting.  “Are you feeling all right?”

 

His eyes flicker nervously to the hulking man, who is almost cringing in the doorway, his great shoulders curled inward and his hands tangled up in front of him.  The man watches him with his eyebrows crumpled together in the middle.  “My head hurts,” he says.  His tongue feels thick.  For a moment, after speaking, the pressure on his chest increases and he can’t breathe.  Slowly, air trickles down his throat again.

 

The woman gestures at his visitor and says, “This is…?”

 

He can’t think of anything to say.  He stares between them with the panic bubbling up behind his eyes.  It is getting harder and harder to draw breath.

 

The man says, “I’m Thor.”  He steps forward to the base of his bed and leans forward a little so he can’t avoid those blue eyes.  “I’m your brother.”

 

At that, he manages to huff a little.  “Brother?” he says, highly skeptical.  He hasn’t seen himself in a mirror yet, but he knows enough from looking at the outline of his body under the sheets to make it obvious that this man is anything but related to him.  “Who are you _really?_ ”

 

The man—Thor—his whole face crumples in on itself a little before he rallies; even then, he can see the pain and confusion written in the lines of his cheekbones.  This is a man who cannot hide himself from the world, though he has no idea why this should be important.

 

“But I _am_ ,” Thor protests.  “I do not deal in falsehoods, brother, you know that.”  His eyes are pleading— _please agree with me, please remember, please!_

 

He looks Thor over again, and though it makes his head throb, he unconsciously catalogues the emotions written all over this huge man’s face, tight in the line of his shoulders and his wrists.  He probably couldn’t… ‘deal in falsehoods’ even if his life depended on it.

 

“Very well,” he says, and the surge that works its way up his throat at this chokes him.  Tears burn hot at the back of his throat, spill over onto his cold cheeks.  He reaches up with clumsy, numb, shaking hands to wipe them from his skin.  Brother, he thinks.  I have a brother.  I have a brother.

 

He is not alone.  He may be alone in his head, lost in this world that he cannot fathom, but he has a _brother_.

 

“Then who am I?” he asks.  He is breathless and fragile.

 

Thor goes to his side and takes his hand in his giant palms.  His skin is so warm and rough and for an instant he thinks that he remembers how this goes, but then the insight is gone and he is once again lost.

 

“You are Loki,” Thor says, his voice so soft for a man of his size.  Some of the panic in his eyes has eased, to be replaced by a deep, aching sadness.  “You are my little brother Loki.  Yes?  Let me hear you speak it.”

 

“Loki,” Loki repeats dutifully.

 

 _Loki_.  Thor’s smile is heartbreaking.

 

&

 

He remembers nothing; that much is obvious.  The kindly nurse gives Loki more medication and Thor sits by his side as he falls asleep, green eyes hidden behind thin skin.  His whole face looks bruised in the bright light.

 

Thor is no medicine man or a doctor of Midgard.  He has never heard of an illness of the head like this.  Even mad, Loki remembered everything—remembered too well.  But he does not even know his own _name_.

 

It had been a futile hope, he understands now, dreaming that, upon seeing his face, Loki’s memories would come rushing back.  But he looked so scared, like he’d had a nightmare of Frost Giants breaking into the palace to hurt his family, and all Thor had seen was his first memory of his brother.  It was his first memory at all—barely a decade old himself, lifted in his mother’s arms to look down at a tiny babe with downy black hair.

 

But the vision faded from his eyes, and now all he can see is Loki’s shaved head and his hollow cheeks.  He is not prepared for this.  He is no scientist.

 

Thor drops his head into his hands, exhaling quickly so he doesn’t start screaming.  He doesn’t want to wake Loki from his slumber.

 

Somebody touches his shoulder gently.  “Is there anybody I can call for you?” the nurse asks softly.  She surely has other places to be, and yet she waits and worries about Thor and his little brother.  He blinks up at her.  “Someone to come here and help?  He is going to need a lot of care.”

 

“Somebody to help?” Thor asks, blankly.  And then it hits him and he sits bolt upright, reaching up with his hands to touch the nurse’s upper arms.  Of course.  _Of course_.  “I do not have her number, but—could you assist me in contacting Jane Foster?  She is an astrophysicist in New Mexico, or at least she was when I last visited.”

 

“Jane Foster?” she repeats.

 

Thor nods quickly.  “She is colleagues with Erik Selvig, and her assistant is a girl named Darcy.”  His face twitches, and it takes him a long moment to realize that he is smiling.  Darcy is a strangely humbling girl.

 

“All right,” the nurse says.  She pats him on the shoulder again and finally departs, leaving him alone with his injured brother.

 

He looks at the stark lines on Loki’s face, the fragile bones pressing up against his skin.  “It will be well,” he whispers.  “Do not fret, Loki.  Jane will help us.”

 

Of course, Loki does not respond, his breathing labored even in sleep.  Jane will know how to help him, Thor tells himself.  She _will_.  And then Loki will get better, once he knows enough to accept the apple from me.

 

&

 

Jane says, “Wait.  Go back.”  She still sounds bewildered.  “Some hospital in _California_ called Darcy, because of your… brother?”

 

“He is hurt badly,” Thor says earnestly.  The kind nurse had come back with a white plastic thing; if he holds it up to his ear, he can hear Jane, though she is many miles away, and somehow she can hear him.  It is science that does what magic never could.  “Please, I—I require your assistance one last time.”

 

“Didn’t your brother try to kill you?” she asks.  “Wasn’t that what happened with that whole metal monster spewing fire thing?  And he lied to you about your dad being dead?  Are we talking about the same person?”

 

“… Yes.”

 

“Oh.”  Jane falls quiet.

 

“Loki was not himself,” Thor says quickly.  “But I do not care whether he still chooses to hate me.  In his fall, he has somehow lost his memories, and I am afraid that I do not understand enough of your science to be able to help him.  You were the first person I thought of.”

 

There is some shuffling on the other end of the line, and Darcy says, “Thor, is your brother hot?  Because then I am totally coming.”

 

“Hot?” Thor says, blinking, stopped in his tracks.  “He… Loki is a frost giant, so he is more cold than hot, I should say—”

 

“Darcy, give it _back!_ ” shouts Jane, her voice tiny and far away.

 

“Never!” Darcy cries.  “Jane, there could be _more like him!_ ”  Something thunks and scrapes and Darcy says something along the lines of, “It’s our scientific responsibility to investigate!”

 

“I’m sorry about that,” Jane says, panting, when she finally wrests control of her own plastic distance-speaking device from Darcy’s hands.  “Of course we’ll come and help you, Thor, if it means that much to you.  Where did you say you were, again?”

 

Thor sighs with relief and says, “Thank you,” his voice choked with emotion.  He fumbles for the piece of paper the nurse slipped him and reads off the address to Jane.  She hums under her breath.

 

“Darcy!” she calls.  “Get directions from the airport, would you?  I still have money,” she explains.  “From that whole thing with SHIELD, I mean.  It’s worth spending it since I shouldn’t even have it in the first place, right?”  She laughs.

 

Thor had forgotten Jane’s laugh, girlish and innocent for such a smart woman.  He swallows and wonders if, maybe, she can teach Loki how to be smart and kind at the same time.  “Thank you,” he says again.

 

“I’m coming too!” Darcy yells from somewhere in the distance.  “Even if there are more mechanical monsters, I am _so_ there.”

 

“My brother sleeps,” Thor says quietly.  He reaches out to take Loki’s hand in his, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles.  His brother’s eyebrows draw together in his sleep, stark against his pallid skin, and he frowns a little.  Thor wishes that this problem were as simple as a nightmare, and just being close would bring a light to Loki’s eyes and a real smile to his lips.  “But he will thank you, I promise.”

 

“We’ll be there as soon as we can, Thor,” Jane promises, soft; even over such a distance he is comforted.  She has done nothing but help him, and this time, he swears, he will find some way to repay her, something better than calling her up after months of absence to declare that his insane, fratricidal brother needs her help.  She deserves better than this—better than _him_.  Thor is certainly not worthy of her, that much he knows.  She is far too good, too clever, and he could never allow himself to tear her from her studies like this.

 

At that thought, he manages a smile.  Loki would know what to tell her.  He could write out equations and explain the inner workings of the universe to Jane, help her with her theories.  Perhaps that would be a gift worthy of Jane Foster: some sharing of wisdom with his little brother, the cleverest man in the Nine Realms.

 

“You will help, brother, will you not?” he asks.  Thor reaches up to touch Loki’s forehead, smooth his fingers over his broken skull.  The skin up there feels soft and fragile and he hardly dares to brush his calloused hands over it for fear of drawing blood.  His bandages will have to be changed soon, the nurse had told him before she handed him this plastic contraption.

 

“I’m sorry?” says Jane, still in New Mexico.

 

“It is nothing,” Thor replies.  He leans back in his chair and pushes his fingers through his hair, trying to work out the tangles that are beginning to emerge.  He wants to sleep; he will not sleep, not until Jane and Darcy have arrived and they can watch over Loki, while Thor cannot.

 

“All right.”  Jane pauses for a moment and shouts to Darcy, “Well, print it then!  Thor,” she says.  “I’m going to call Erik.  He grew up with stories of you and your brother, and he may be able to remind you of something that I can’t.”

 

Erik had been the last to trust him, before, but as soon as he hears—well, maybe Erik will know who the silver lady is, since Thor is obviously too stupid to remember.  “Yes,” he says.  “That is a good idea.”

 

“Okay.”  He can almost imagine her nodding to herself, determination creeping into her eyes.  “Darcy and I will be there by lunchtime tomorrow, okay?”

 

“See you then,” Thor whispers, and then the plastic machine goes dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The people have spoken! (Fanfiction is a democracy, you know. This one is, at least.) This fic shall stay gen, which will be much easier to deal with anyway than a romance. Yes?
> 
> I was pleasantly surprised by the speed and number of responses I got for my question from last time. Knowing that people cared enough about this whole thing to tell me what they truly thought is the reason why you have this next chapter so quickly-- turns out they were quite good on the inspiration front!


	6. Act V: The Medicine Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki's head spins and then the universe switches off.

Loki wakes from a jumbled dream of carved golden walls and a deep, throbbing ache in his chest that does not leave even when he regains consciousness.  He tests out the syllables of this strange word that Thor insists is his name.  _Loki.  Lo-ki.  Loki, Loki, Loki._   Only then does he open his eyes.

 

Thor still sits in the chair at his side, his eyes hollow and his hands limp in his lap.  Somehow, he has not drifted off—not once in all the times Loki woke, trying to turn fretfully, his breath clogging his throat.  He remembers Thor reaching out to touch his forehead, soothing, and air came easier.

 

“Brother,” Thor says immediately, leaning forward, and his whole face lights up.  Loki’s chest tightens.  He knows nothing of his brother, and yet the idea that _he_ can inspire such joy in this man seems wrong.  How is that possible?  “Loki.  Are you well?”

 

“I am… fine.”  Breath comes short again, and he leans his head back against his pillow, baring his throat.  The angle, he has found, lets the air trickle into his lungs.  “Thank you for being so concerned.”

 

“Of course I am concerned.”  Thor smiles at him, his blue eyes crinkling.  “How could I not be?”  He reaches over to touch Loki’s arm before drawing back.

 

Loki finds that he has nothing to say to this.  He swallows and tries to reach up to rub at his face.  His arms still feel so heavy, his fingers fat and clumsy.  He can hardly feel anything and so his arms feel like swollen noodles.  But if he looks down, all he can see are the thin bones of his wrists.

 

Thor clears his throat and rubs at his forehead, the sadness sinking down over his forehead.  “I know a few people,” he says.  “They might be able to help us.  I asked them to come—is this acceptable?”  His face is so anxious, like Loki’s opinion really does matter to him.

 

“Oh,” says Loki, surprised.  “I—of course.”  He blinks at Thor, because this is his _brother_ , and if Thor says that they can help, then perhaps they can help him find his memories.  Whoever they are.

 

Relief blooms in Thor’s eyes, and he slumps against the back of his chair, finally relaxing.  He’s been worrying about this for hours, Loki realizes.  He worried that I would not approve.

 

(What sort of relationship did they have, before, that Thor holds his opinion in such high regard?)

 

“I am glad,” Thor says, stating the utterly obvious, and smiles.  It is so wide and white that Loki is almost startled by the depth of emotion.

 

Loki forces himself to swallow, his mouth dry, and looks away.  His head pounds and he pushes at the bed with his hands, trying to lever himself farther upright, but his legs flop uselessly, like a pair of dead fish, and he can barely move.  When his breath comes so short that he is dizzy, he collapses onto his pillow.

 

“Loki?” Thor asks, concerned.  His face looms in his fuzzy vision, his gilded hair falling about his cheeks.  “Brother, are you well?”

 

“Fine,” he huffs, trying to clutch at the blankets, his fingers kneading.  “I am _fine_.”

 

He feels anything but fine.  It is so hard to move, and so hard to breathe, and so hard to understand everything happening around him.  Thor is here, yes, but he has spoken nothing of their parents or home, and Loki has no idea how he could possibly have ended up on the side of a mountain, battered within an inch of his life.  He hates this.  For a moment, angry tears well in his eyes, so hot that they burn.

 

“Brother,” says Thor, so softly, so gently that Loki wants to scream at him, and he reaches out to lay his warm palm on his forehead.  “Shush, Loki.  Be calm.”

 

The tears spill over and he tries—uselessly—to muffle his sobs.  He doesn’t understand, quite, why the pain is welling back up again and pushing itself out his eyes.  But his chest is tight with more than just lack of air, and his heart feels like it is ripping in two.  He can’t breathe.  He can’t breathe.

 

The door bangs open and a man in the white coat comes in, closely followed by a woman in yellow.  The man says, “Easy, easy.”

 

The woman says, “Sir, I have to ask you to step aside.”  And before Thor can really respond, she elbows him aside and pushes Loki’s arms back to the sheets.  He does not fight her, partially because she is just doing her job but mostly because he is choking on his own tongue.  Something cold rushes through the veins of his arm, slipping through the clear tubing from a syringe the man holds in his hand, and the world sways alarmingly.

 

In front of his memory-eyes looms Thor’s face, set with anger and fear, with blue light crackling all around him, dulling even the color of the bright red cloak about his shoulders.  Loki’s head spins and then the universe switches off.

 

&

 

“Excitement is bad for him,” the nurse says seriously.  Thor listens to her carefully, because she is being kind, doing as he bade and staying with Loki.  He suspects that his frantic pleas worried her enough that she agreed.  “Try not to let your friends jump him, or we may have to drug him again.”  Her mouth twists.

 

“Yes, madam,” Thor says, and nods.  He looks over at Loki again; it is so easy to remember the tears sliding down his cheeks.  Thor hates to see Loki cry, and he wishes he could promise himself that this would be the last time.  He hesitates at the door—somebody else could show Jane and Darcy up!  But immediately he knows this is folly.  “Watch over him,” he says.  “Please.”

 

The nurse’s face softens.  She settles back into her chair and tells him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Thor smiles at her, the best one he can manage in these circumstances.  And then he leaves as quickly as he can, before he changes his mind and goes back to Loki’s side.  His brother will be watched while he is gone; he will still be there when Thor returns with help.

 

Luckily, he does not have to work out how to use the magic transportation box.  Another family is already in there, eyes red with tears, and he stands as far away from them as possible, trying to be respectful.  The grief etched plainly across his face makes him wish for Asgard and its customs.  They would not understand his eulogy for the dead if he spoke now.

 

Jane is here, he reminds himself.  Trust that she will know what to do, for Loki and for anyone else we chance to meet.

 

The nurse in the yellow clothes said that a girl calling herself Darcy had called the front desk, saying that they were almost there for “the hot godlike being guarding his unconscious brother!”  Thor hides his smile with his hand—just thinking about it makes him so happy that his friends are coming.  Even if they can do nothing for Loki, just having them there will give him strength to find another way.

 

The giant box beeps at them and the letter G appears on top of the door.  The grieving family shuffles off in a clump, like if they do not stay near each other then they will all fall to the ground and weep.  Thor steers around them and follows the signs labeled LOBBY.  Truthfully, the journey from down here to Loki’s room is dim in his memory, and so he takes great care this time to remember where to go.

 

And there they are—Jane still bundled up in her jacket, a bag clutched in her arms, and Darcy beside her, gazing about with interest.  She spots him and immediately bounces up onto the balls of her feet, grinning and waving, and she shouts, “ _Thor!_ ”

 

Everyone stares, but Thor does not care.  His friends are here.  Jane’s grin is sweet and almost childlike, just like he remembers it, and Darcy still pushes her glasses up her nose on her way over.  He holds out his arms.

 

“Thank you for coming here,” he says through the tears he refuses to cry.  Not yet—not here.

 

“Of course we were coming,” Jane says, shoving Darcy aside so she can fling her arms around Thor’s torso.  Her reach is not great enough, really, but nevertheless she squeezes and then reaches up to pat his shoulder.  “Did you honestly think we wouldn’t?”

 

He laughs, briefly.  “No,” he says, although he had wondered.  “Of course not.”  It’s a simple matter to take Jane’s arm and lead her gently down the hallway, Darcy happily trailing along behind.

 

“It was a pretty awesome flight,” she says brightly.  “The other guy who was supposed to sit in our row totally didn’t show up, so we got all three seats to ourselves!  And I stole some peanuts and stuff from the dude in front of me—but he deserved it, don’t worry, since he kept leaning back in his stupid chair and almost crushing my knees.  Remember, Jane?  So I was like, I’m going to get him back before this plane lands, and I did!”

 

“Darcy,” Jane says.  They’ve reached the magic box, and she asks, “What floor is he on?”

 

“The second,” Thor tells her readily, relieved.  Jane understands these boxes, he’s sure, and now he will not get them lost through his stupidity.

 

“We’re going to have to get a hotel,” she says, shifting the bag onto her shoulder, and then pokes a button with her finger.  The doors slide closed.  “I think we should get two rooms, right, Darcy?  That way you and Erik can stay in one when he arrives.”

 

“Me?” Thor repeats blankly.  “But I am staying here with my brother.  I cannot just leave him.”

 

“Thor—” Jane begins, but Darcy interrupts her.

 

“Hey.  _Thor_.  There are three of us now.  We can trade off, like in those action movies where the characters each take a different watch or whatever and then have heartfelt, life-changing conversations in the middle of the night while everyone else is asleep.  It’ll be awesome!  Besides, I mean, for a god, you look like hell.”  She pats his arm kindly, and Thor, who is used to bizarre pronouncements from Darcy’s mouth, nevertheless has no idea what to say.

 

“What happened?” Jane asks anxiously.  “I mean, you’ve been gone for months, and suddenly you call us up and say that your mur—your brother is hurt and you need our help.  Are you okay?  Where is everyone else?  Why didn’t you come back sooner?”

 

The elevator _ding_ s and deposits them on the second floor.  Thor courteously takes Jane’s bag and tucks it under his arm.  “The Bifrost was destroyed,” he says shortly.  “My father… did not entirely understand the situation, and some unwise words….”  His tongue feels stuck to the roof of his mouth and he clears his throat.  “My brother let himself fall into the collapsing Bifrost rather than climb back with me.  I do not understand what happened between then and now, and neither does he.”  He has to swallow again.  “He does not understand much of anything.”

 

They have reached Loki’s room, and when he peers through the door, he is relieved to see the nurse still sitting in her chair and Loki asleep.  Behind him, Jane sucks in a quick breath of air.

 

The nurse spots them and stands up as he pushes the door open.  “He hasn’t woken up,” she says, and smiles at Jane and Darcy.  “I’ll leave you to it, shall I?”  She walks out quickly and thoughtfully closes the door behind herself.

 

Thor looks at his friends.  They stare at his brother with wide eyes, taking in his sunken face, his thin hands lying on his stomach, the thick white bandages wrapped around his skull.

 

“Oh my god,” Darcy says.  “I mean—you weren’t—is he even _breathing?_ ”

 

“Not well,” Thor admits.  He goes to Loki’s side and takes his hand, gently enfolding it with his own.  His fingers are cold against his palm.  “He struck his head badly in the fall, and the… doctor says that it has made it hard for him to breathe, and he will probably have to learn how to walk again.”  He can’t help but glance down at Loki’s still legs, hidden beneath the blankets.

 

“Oh, Thor,” Jane whispers, coming up to his side and resting her head on his shoulder.  “I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”

 

He forces a smile and rubs at his face.  “He will be happy to see you,” he says, gruff.  “I told him that you were coming.”  Thor takes care not to mention the panic attack he’d had shortly afterwards.

 

Darcy edges over and takes the seat on the opposite side of the bed, looking at Loki like she expects him to leap off the bed and bite her.  “I thought gods were supposed to bounce,” she says, and for one wild moment Thor has no idea what she is talking about.  But she has not been keeping up with the conversation, it seems.

 

“He does not remember who he is,” he blurts out, turning to Jane.  His voice is anguished.  “He did not know me, or our past, or even his own _name_.”  Despite himself, a tear slips down his cheek; he dashes it away roughly.  “What is wrong with him?  Is there anything we can do that will help him?”

 

“That sounds like amnesia to me,” Jane says slowly, obviously turning the question over in her mind.  “But I’ve… never heard of it behaving like that before.  I assume he can still speak, but he just can’t remember anything before he hit his head?”

 

Thor nods, desperate, and waits on tenterhooks for her answer.  Jane will know, he reassures Loki.  Jane will be able to help us.

 

She looks down at his little brother and touches his forehead in a quick flutter of fingers.  “Have you tried talking to him?” she asks.

 

“Does he know he’s a god?” Darcy butts in.  She hums and looks down at him.  “I guess he would look pretty good with some hair and a bit more weight on him.  What, does he think he was hit by a car or something?”

 

“I… do not think he knows what a car is,” Thor says, faltering.  Perhaps they do not know how to fix Loki, either.  His stomach clenches.

 

“Erik will know what to do,” Jane says firmly, seeing his face.  She pushes at him insistently until he drops into his chair, her bag cradled in his arms, and stares at his sleeping brother.  “He’s read a _lot_ about this sort of thing.  I’ll give him a call now—he should be at the airport in Minneapolis, I think—anyway, I’ll let him know, and when he gets here he’ll help us break the news to your brother.  Okay?”

 

Thor nods, grateful, at least, for a plan.  He touches his brother’s cheek and whispers, voice cracking, “See, Loki?  I told you that they would help us.”

 

Jane and Darcy look at him with pity in their eyes, though he pretends not to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, didn't get quite as far in this one as I wanted to, but if I tried for more you'd probably have to wait for days. Anyway, it looks like we're in for the long haul.
> 
> Everyone who commented-- I appreciate you taking the time, so, so much! And everyone who gave kudos-- I was so happy when I got more! So keep up the good work and I'll see if I can give you another chapter in a more timely manner, since this one took forever.


	7. Act VI: The Runemaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has an accent that seems so familiar that for a moment Loki thinks he remembers what he's forgotten-- but it's only an illusion.

Loki says, “Thor, it’s madness.”

 

Thor says, “Brother, this is madness!”  The blue light is painted all over his face and he swings one arm out wide with his words.  His eyes are wild with anger—and hurt.

 

Thor says, “Brother, are you mad?”  Laughing, always laughing.  He seizes Loki about the middle and spins him around, his smile so wide and delighted.

 

“I am not mad,” Loki says loftily, pushing at Thor’s shoulder so he will put him down.  Thor looks about fifteen, still growing into his limbs, though Loki is, if anything, ganglier still.  “I am _brilliant_ , Thor.  The hammer wants you, it’s obvious.”

 

“She does _not_ ,” Thor protests.  But Loki can see it in his eyes, the excitement as the idea catches hold, and his heart swells a little, because _he_ is the one who made this happen.

 

“If you but paid attention to your dreams, you would have stumbled upon this answer long ago.”  He cannot help but smile at his brother, then, wide and delighted, his teeth still crooked with youth.  “I can show you, if you like.  Would I lie to you?”

 

“No,” Thor says, and he laughs again, utterly happy.  “Not to me.”

 

&

 

Loki opens his eyes groggily, stifling a moan of pain as gravity presses his head into the pillow.  The ceiling swims above him before steadying, and he drags clumsy fingers over the bedspread, trying to find something, anything, to hold on to.

 

Thor is passed out with his head beside Loki’s waist, and two girls are staring at him.

 

His breath strangles him from the inside out, until he can’t even scream.  The girls see this and they both lunge at him at once.

 

“Shhh!” says one.

 

“Oh my god, don’t die,” says the other.

 

Loki stares at them and struggles to breathe.  He drops his head back until air finally sneaks past whatever blockage his brain is creating.  It takes a few moments, but he finally manages to bring a hand up to his face, pressing the pads of his fingers against the pulse hammering in his neck.  “Who… are you?” he demands, high and strained.

 

Thor stirs slightly, against his side, and the first girl frantically puts her finger against her lips, pointing at him.  He looks between them for a moment, uncomprehending, and then understanding strikes.

 

“Is this the first time he’s slept?” he asks, much more quietly, and drops his cheek against the pillow so he can see the way Thor has mashed his face into the covers.  The image seems vaguely familiar, but that thought is soon forgotten.  He looks so young, some of the lines of his face smoothed out.  Loki moves his arm, now that feeling is more or less present, and drags his fingers through Thor’s hair.

 

“Yes,” says the first girl, taking great care to speak softly.

 

The other one doesn’t even bother.  “He’s stubborn, your brother,” she says, quite cheerfully.  “But eventually we managed to persuade him that you wouldn’t die if he just laid his head down—”

 

“I’m Jane,” the first one interrupts.  “And that’s Darcy.”  She smiles, but it is awkward and almost forced—her eyes are wary.

 

Loki narrows his eyes.  “What is it?” he asks.  His chest tightens and his fingers knot in Thor’s hair.

 

His brother moves a little, frowning, and his palm presses against the blanket.  Jane waves her arms again, but Darcy says loudly, “He said your name is Loki.”  And Thor settles right back down with a small noise low in his throat.

 

“It’s pretty easy,” the girl says, bright.  “He just needs to know we’re watching.  _That’s_ what I was trying to say, about why your brother finally decided that he could do something for himself.”  She leans forward, meeting Loki’s eyes squarely, and pushes her glasses up her nose with one finger.  “You don’t look much like him,” she adds.  “He said that your hair is black.”

 

“I suppose,” Loki says doubtfully.

 

“ _Darcy_ ,” Jane says, in a fierce undertone like Loki isn’t sitting right there and hearing everything she’s saying.

 

“Did I do something?” Loki asks, more than a little lost, and Jane looks at him in a way that suggests he’s an idiot for not knowing exactly what she speaks of.

 

Thor mumbles a bit and lifts his head.  Loki tightens his grip on his hair, half in fright and half in concern, and Thor stops moving long enough to say, “Loki?”

 

“I am fine,” he says, and then adds, “brother.”  It’s a calculated risk—and it’s worth it, for the beatific smile that spreads across Thor’s face.  He nuzzles into Loki’s side with a sigh and drifts off.

 

“Okay,” Jane murmurs once they are sure that Thor is not going to wake.  “I don’t know what’s going on, but your brother called us here to help.”  She leans closer to him, looking closely into his eyes, and reaches forward to gently touch his forehead with the tips of her fingers.  “Does this hurt?”

 

Loki looks at her like she’s crazy.

 

“Is that a yes or a no?” Darcy asks.

 

“No,” Loki says.  “Why is this important?”  His head is aching, but not exactly because of Jane’s touch.  The pain seems to slide down his neck and pools in his stomach, and it feels awful, like he’s somehow done something wrong and he doesn’t know what.

 

“Do you remember anything?”  Jane rubs at his eyebrows and feathers her fingers down the bandage on the side of his head.  Loki winces and tries to pull away.

 

“Maybe Erik will know,” Darcy says, looking at him with worry in her eyes.  “He reads _everything_ , Mr. Loki—your name is fun to say,” she adds in a giggle.  “Loki.  _Lo_ ki.  Lo-lo-lo-lo-ki.”  When she realizes that both Jane and Loki are staring at her, she says, “What?”

 

“Anyway, he’ll get here soon,” Jane continues.  “He’ll help you.”  Her eyes, when she looks at Loki again, are softer.  Her gaze flickers to Thor’s sleeping form and, slowly, she gives a real smile.

 

&

 

Erik Selvig arrives later that day, when a concerned doctor has moved Thor to a couch and helped Loki sit up by showing him strange buttons on the side that move the back of his bed up and down when he wants it to.  He finds it harder to breathe, but at least he doesn’t feel like such an invalid.

 

“Erik’s here,” Jane says, checking her small plastic far-seeing device, whatever it is, her voice lighting up with excitement.  “Darcy, stay with him.  We promised Thor that somebody would be watching him at all times.”  She smiles at them both and darts out the door, her small, compact body moving quickly.

 

“She’s a little crazy,” Darcy tells him brightly.  “About your brother, I mean.  None of us expected you to turn up.”  She pats his hand.  “You seem really worried about him—are you sure you don’t remember anything?”

 

“He told me that he was my brother,” Loki says slowly.  “Of course I am concerned about him.”  He doesn’t mention how emotions dig so deep, strung up in his bones, how every time Thor smiles at him he feels as though it’s a small miracle, but she sees it in his face anyway and she grins, shoving her glasses back up her nose.

 

They don’t speak until Jane appears at the door again, an older man behind her.  His face is sagging with lack of sleep, his cheeks scratchy with stubble—stubble that has not appeared again on Loki’s face, even though he’s been lying here for a few days.  And despite his bone-deep exhaustion, he looks at Loki like he’s something he never expected to find, not even in his wildest dreams.

 

“My god,” he says.  He has an accent that seems so familiar that for a moment Loki thinks he remembers what he’s forgotten—but it’s only an illusion.

 

“Erik,” Jane says quickly, grabbing his arm.  “This is Loki.”

 

“Where is Thor?”

 

“Out in the hallway,” Loki says, pushing his hands together.  Feeling creeps back into the tips of his fingers, slowly, and he focuses on taking deep breaths, forcing air into his chest.  “He’s _asleep_.”

 

“I see,” Erik says, but not like he’s actually listening.

 

Darcy scrambles to her feet and says, “I’m going to check up on Thor,” she tells them.  “Just in case he’s woken up and panicking.”  And she darts out, pulling her hair back from her neck and twisting it around her fist, fishing around in her pocket for a band.

 

“They think he fell,” Jane says in a low voice.  “I don’t know much about medical science except what I see in cop procedurals, but it does _not_ look like a simple fall.”

 

“I see,” Erik says again.  He steps closer and drops his bags on the floor, collapsing in a chair.  Jane hovers over his shoulder.  “You’re… Loki?”

 

“So I’ve been told.”  Loki looks at him in suspicion.  He feels like he knows this sort of person, like this man is so familiar he can scream.  “Thor is my brother,” he states, with much more confidence than claiming his own name.  “I trust him.”

 

“Interesting,” he murmurs.  Erik reaches out and touches his head, gently, turning Loki’s head to look at the wound.  “I don’t have x-ray vision, Loki, but from the size of these bandages you certainly fell farther than just down a hill.”  He meets his eyes squarely, pale blue and almost washed-out, and somehow Loki can see that he _knows_.  He knows what happened.  “Do you remember anything?”

 

“No,” Loki breathes.  “I don’t.  But—you do.  You _do._   Have you told Thor?  Does he know what happened to me?  Can you _fix_ this?”  He reaches with clumsy fingers to clutch at Erik’s arm, desperate for contact, desperate for some answers.

 

“Loki,” Erik says, very calmly, and takes his hands.  His hands are cold against Loki’s skin.  “I don’t want you to be hurt.  Thor knows what happened, but I think he’s afraid to tell you.”

 

His breath snags in his throat, almost chokes him, and he forces out, “Thor _knows?_ ”

 

“Listen to me, Loki,” Erik says urgently.  “You are named for a god, do you understand?  A Norse god.  I can find books for you to read about Loki.  He’s a god of mischief.  I grew up with stories about him, about all of the things he did.  He was very clever—brother to Thor, the god of thunder.”

 

Loki looks at him, because he doesn’t quite understand.

 

“Erik.”  Jane reaches out to catch at his shoulder.

 

“Jane, please,” Erik says.  “He has to know.  Go wake up Thor, please.  And get Darcy in here while you’re at it—we need to figure this out.”

 

She obeys him with one last look over her shoulder, and goes out into the hallway.  She shuts the door quietly behind her.

 

“I do not understand,” Loki says, his tongue heavy and ponderous in his mouth.  It feels like the world is slowing down around him, like molasses.

 

“Thor loves you,” Erik tells him, very quiet and very soft.  “You’re his little brother.  He came a very long way to help you, and I don’t understand how he got here, quite, since it was quite obvious when he left that he could not return, but—you have to understand how much he loves you.”

 

Jane appears at the door.  “He’s awake,” she says.  “He and Darcy have been… talking.”

 

“Get him _in here!_ ” Erik almost barks.  “This is important.”

 

Thor appears at her shoulder, his brows drawn together in the middle, and then his face lightens.  “Loki!” he says.  “You’re awake!”

 

“Thor,” Erik says, “you need to tell him, or I can’t help.  There will be ways to work with him if he knows what is going on.  You can’t just keep your little brother in the dark, Thor.”

 

“I do not understand,” Loki protests, voice high.  “What are you _talking_ about?”

 

Thor is torn, now, and the expression is so familiar that Loki has to cover his face, because he knows that he won’t remember anything and it hurts too much.  This new man is confusing him and his head hurts.

 

His brother comes to his side and pulls his hands from his face, cradling them in his.  At least his fingers are warm and calloused, comforting in their bizarre familiarity.  “Loki,” he says.  “We are not… from around here.  A family friend saw what happened to you and I would not let the matter rest until Father let me come.”

 

 _Father_.  This is the first mention that has ever been made of one of their parents, and Loki’s heart clenches so hard in chest that he almost chokes.

 

“Father?” he repeats.  “Did Father send you?”

 

Thor goes on, not stopping to listen, “You fell a long way, my brother.  Far farther than the doctors think.”

 

“I am _not_ a god!” Loki almost shouts, his voice cracking in his throat.  “I would have—I would have bounced!”

 

“You fell through space,” Thor tells him urgently.  “It hurt you very badly.  I just—I need you to trust—”

 

“ _No!_ ” Loki screams, wrenching his hands free to cover his face.  Tears burn in his eyes and spill over his cold, cold cheeks.  Something boils in his chest, hot and burning, tries to force itself up his throat, and he is suddenly seized by anger, a great, mad anger that fills his brain and tilts the whole world sideways.  He does not understand.  He does not _understand_.  “Why should I trust you?  You _lied_ to me!”

 

“Loki, no, I did not!” Thor says.

 

“Hey!” Darcy shouts from the door, where she’s peeking through the windows for anyone passing by.  “Does anyone want to hold onto this fight and have it later?  There is no way we can fix him if doctors are breathing down our necks, right?  I have a way to get him out.”

 

And Loki is so mad with something he can’t even name that he barely hears her.

 

But Thor does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, time for some transparency-- I am working on this fic as much as I can, but I've been having a lot of problems this past year and they're making it really hard to write. It's like pulling teeth. I'm going to keep trying, but if it's later than I'd like then I apologize ahead of time. I just hope that if I can figure out how to finish this that it'll make me feel better.


	8. Act VII: The Great Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik groans and drops his head into his hands.
> 
> (In which an escape is planned and executed rather ineptly.)

“It’s simple,” Darcy insists.

 

“Nothing is simple,” Thor almost roars.  His heart constricts painfully in his chest.  Loki still sits there, his hands clenching at the sheets, his brows lowered and his eyes sparkling.  Again, he sees his little brother gone mad.  “If we are to make this escape, every detail must be perfect.”

 

“Interesting,” says Erik—for the twelfth time—and Thor glares at him.  Forcing Thor to tell the truth has only made Loki angry, and he had hoped to avoid that for the time being.

 

“ _I_ am the one being rescued,” Loki says imperiously, every inch a prince of Asgard, and Thor is blinded by memories.  “Do I not get a say?”

 

“Brother,” Thor pleads.

 

Loki glowers at him but subsides, and Thor is so startled by his obedience that for a moment he can think of nothing to say about Darcy’s plan.

 

“Look,” Darcy says impatiently, hurrying onward before anyone can muster more complaints.  “It’s _easy_ , I swear.  I’ll just hack onto the mainframe, put in a referral for some made-up doctor in a different hospital, and _bam_.  We just walk out with him and a wheelchair and a respirator, I guess, or whatever those things are called—” She gestures vaguely at the machine helping Loki breathe, with the clear tubes taped under his nose.

 

“I am no invalid,” Loki says loftily.

 

“Loki,” Thor sighs, and once again, to his surprise, his little brother stops.  He glowers down at his knuckles, his eyebrows drawing down over his bright eyes.

 

Darcy is unperturbed.  “Trust me,” she insists, “it’ll work.  Jane, you _know_ how good I am at this.”

 

Jane looks them all over carefully, her brown eyes gradually softening when they linger on Thor.  “She is good,” she says.  “Thor, she’s the one who made your fake ID.”

 

“Like that worked,” Erik says, his first real contribution to the conversation.  “Those agents figured out our game in minutes.”

 

“Doctors don’t check referrals to that extent!  C’mon, Erik, you know I can do this—if you’d like, you can pretend to be the doctor, for some authenticity.  It’ll be fun!  And then we can just wheel Mr. Loki on out of here and head to hotel to figure all of this out.”  Darcy fairly glows with satisfaction.  “Admit it: I’m a genius.”

 

Thor looks over at Erik and Jane, a question in his eyes.

 

“Sounds like it could work,” Jane says with a shrug.

 

“‘Could’?” Erik asks.  “Could isn’t good enough, Jane.  What if we get caught?”

 

“We _won’t_ get caught,” proclaims Darcy in the most grandiose way possible.  Loki looks up at her and watches with bare curiosity.  Thor knew that he would like her, and he feels a little better about this whole thing.

 

“If Lady Darcy says that it will work,” he says, “then it will work.  And we have to get my brother somewhere safe, where we can help.”

 

For a moment, his hand feels heavy with an apple that isn’t there, and yet when he opens his mouth to speak of it his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.  It feels like magic.  He lets his hand fist against his thigh.

 

_Will the apple save him?_

_Perhaps.  If he allows it._

 

Loki glances at him, the bones of his skull stark under his skin, and his dark eyelashes flutter.  Something softens in his gaze when he looks at Thor, the sort of thing that a little brother would know well.  Thor smiles at him and Loki twists his head away, but not before Thor sees him turn faintly pink.

 

Erik groans and drops his head into his hands.

 

&

 

Loki says, “I do not _want_ a wheelchair,” fierce and petulant.  Thor remembers when he was small, and he would say, “I do not _want_ a romance story” or “I do not _want_ the slower horse!”

 

“Sir,” the nurse says patiently.  “You can’t walk.”

 

“I _can_.”

 

“That’s what the new doctor is going to help with,” the nurse says, patting Loki’s arm.  He is tall, like they are, with brown hair that curls against his eyebrows and wiry upper arms.  The wheelchair sits beside him, innocuous, with black leather and steel supports.  And Loki still sits in his bed, refusing to move, while Darcy waits in the hallway and Jane loiters outside in the ‘getaway vehicle.’

 

“I can walk, I can, I _can,_ ” Loki insists.  He tries to push himself upright, but Thor is an expert in battle and he can see that his little brother can’t quite feel his way around, like his limbs are mostly numb.

 

“Loki,” Thor says.  He reaches out and steadies him, and Loki gives a half-hearted attempt to shrug him off.  “Please, brother.  The doctor will be able to help.  You _will_ walk again, I swear it.”

 

He looks at him, green eyes bright in his pale face, and suddenly he isn’t acting anymore—if he was ever acting at all, Thor realizes with a jolt.  With his past forgotten, all of the lies are gone from Loki’s face.  “You promise?”

 

“Of course,” Thor says immediately.  He takes one of Loki’s hands and smiles, big and bright and everything that seems to make Loki happy.  “I promise.  But first we have to get you out of here, yes?”

 

“Ah,” says Loki.  “Yes.”  He looks at the wheelchair, unhappy, and then sighs.  “Very well,” he informs the nurse.  “I will get into this….  But do _not_ laugh.”

 

“I won’t laugh,” the nurse says with a smile.  He nods at Thor, and he holds onto Loki’s shoulders as the nurse throws back the covers, exposing his brother’s lean legs, pale and still under his borrowed clothes—the ones he insisted on putting on himself.  The man took his ankles gently and swung him around until they dangled off the edge, in a parody of getting up.

 

Loki looks down at his legs with his face set into hard lines.  Under Thor’s hands, his shoulders tense.

 

The nurse looks at them both with a sort of vague smile on his face, and steers the wheelchair into position.  “You’ll learn how to do this for yourself,” he tells Loki.  “But for now we’re just going to lift you into the chair, all right?  Try not to thrash.”

 

Thor braces the wheel with his foot and keeps his hands on Loki’s back.  The nurse grasps his waist, and between the two of them, they lift Loki’s light form—lighter than he used to be—and settle him into the chair.  It tries to skid a little, but Thor keeps it still, and the brake on the other wheel holds.  Nevertheless, once Loki is settled, squirming around a little to balance himself properly, it seems steady.

 

“There we are,” says the nurse happily.  He puts Loki’s feet into position.  “Now for the respirator—”  He finds the clear tubes and hooks them up to a portable steel container latched to the back of the chair before helping Loki loop them under his nose.  If Thor hadn’t been watching so closely, he wouldn’t have seen how Loki relaxes and actually breathes once it’s in place.  “We sent a script to your doctor for more tanks, when you need them.”

 

“Thank you.”  Thor reaches out for the handles and grips them as tightly as he dares.  Fresh bandages have been wound about Loki’s head, but even so he looks fragile.

 

The nurse smiles.  “Good luck.”

 

So Thor pushes Loki right on out of there, just like Darcy said, and goes towards the elevator.  Darcy looks up from her phone and bounces up.  “What did I tell you?” she asks, grinning, and pats Loki on the head.

 

“Ouch,” says Loki, and she snatches her hand away.  But even Thor can tell that he’s lying.

 

Darcy is here to work what she calls the elevator, since trying to explain it to Thor had been a comprehensive failure and Loki didn’t know what they were talking about.  He’s sure that Loki will know exactly how to use it, as soon as they’ve used it once, because even with a cracked skull, his brother is the cleverest man in the nine realms.

 

“Oh my god, this is so exciting,” she gushes when they’re safely inside—well, sort of.  There’s a small camera in the corner, the kind that Thor remembers from his short-lived incarceration by SHIELD.  Anybody could be watching them right now.

 

“Darcy,” he says warningly.  This is just like running a mission with his friends, only without Loki to plan it and Sif to help execute it.  He has to work with what he has—an astrophysicist, her mentor, her distracted assistant, and his injured brother.  As the only experienced warrior left in the group, it’s his job to make sure that everything runs smoothly.

 

“Right, right,” she says, and makes a motion like she’s locking her lips and throwing away the key.  Thor and Loki stare at her.

 

“This is a stupid plan,” Loki mutters, and Thor fights back a smile.  That sounds like the old Loki, the one who disparaged everyone else’s plans and replaced them with his own.

 

Somehow, they make it out of the elevator without being accosted by the policemen, who surely must have figured out what’s going on, even if they’re on break.  The older man in particular has the look of a watchful soldier, and Thor is relieved not to have to confront him, especially with Loki and Darcy to look after.

 

“Do you think we’re going to have a _car chase?_ ” Darcy asks, excited.

 

“No,” Thor says immediately, at the same time as Loki inquires, “What’s a car?”

 

&

 

The car, it turns out, is huge and unwieldy and rather like Jane’s steed from New Mexico.  Erik climbs out of the passenger seat, the color of sour mead and sweating.  “Hurry, hurry,” he hisses.

 

“Nobody’s going to _notice_ ,” says Darcy.

 

“What are we doing?” Loki asks, rather wonderingly, like he hadn’t quite understood what they were up to before.

 

“Unhook that tank,” Thor orders Erik, pointing, and kneels, grasping Loki’s hands.  “Brother, I am going to have to pick you up.  I’m afraid it will be rather undignified, but it must be done.”

 

Loki’s eyes are large and strangely soft in the low light.  A small smile creases his cheek.  “All right,” he agrees.

 

Erik grunts and hefts the steel container in his arms; Jane leans out the window impatiently.  “What’s taking so long?” she demands.

 

“A moment, please,” Thor says, and gathers Loki into his arms, standing in one smooth motion.  He has the strength of a god, of course, but his little brother has lost weight since landing on Midgard—he’s light as a bird in his arms.

 

“Oof,” says Loki.

 

Darcy pulls aside the belt and waits quietly while Thor settles Loki in, arranging his legs carefully and then stepping aside.  She buckles him in and grins.  “There you are,” she says.  “Don’t be frightened, not all cars are like this—it’s just Jane.  Maybe I should drive,” she suggests.

 

“ _No,_ ” sighs Erik.  He wedges the tank between the back of Loki’s seat and the doorjamb.  “Darcy, would you mind putting the wheelchair in the back?  We’ll need that.”  He gestures with one hand, looking straight into Thor’s face.  “Sit next to him, would you?  I’d rather not have a trickster god get upset while Jane is driving.”  Shaking his head, he plods back around to the passenger seat, muttering under his breath.

 

“I’ll sit in the back,” Darcy says happily.  She pats Loki’s shoulder and then sits down just behind him, grinning and slapping her knees.  “This is so exciting!  Thor, I’m glad that you called us.”

 

“You are welcome, of course.”  Thor slides the door shut, hunting down the belt over his shoulder and pushing it into the correct slot.  Loki looks at him, eyes wide, and he smiles at him kindly.  His brother’s face relaxes.

 

“Okay, okay, _go_ ,” Jane whispers to herself.  The car lurches and squeals out from underneath the overhang, hurtling out onto the road.  Thor catches himself on the window and pushes his hair off his forehead.

 

&

 

The hotel Jane has selected is modestly proportioned, in a relatively quiet part of town.  Thor is quite pleased by this—Loki will do better, he thinks, with room to breathe.  He lifts his little brother back into the wheelchair, Erik straps the tank into place, and all five of them walk into the lobby, bold as brass.  The man at the desk looks at them rather strangely, but he hands over the key easily enough and shows them to the elevator.

 

“Press the button labeled ‘three’,” Loki tells him in a whisper, pointing.  “It’ll go up by itself.”

 

“I knew you would work it out,” Thor murmurs back, his heart swelling, and he presses the button with his thumb.  The box jolts and begins to rise, and the other three politely pretend not to have heard a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep leaving kudos, and comments are much appreciated! (Both are cherished like jewels, truth be told.)


	9. Act VIII: The Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There is a woman,” Thor says, “who has an orchard.”
> 
> (In which Thor is Captain Obvious and the Astro Team has to deal with all of this.)

Thor has never been in a hotel before, and it is strange, seeing a room that houses many people over the course of a year.  He would suppose it a home, except that Darcy assures him that hotels are tacky and overdone.

 

“That’s why we got two rooms, so that we can have some slight differences,” she says confidently, when Thor knows very well that they got two rooms so that the men can sleep in one and Jane and Darcy in the other.

 

“This is the handicapped room,” Jane explains in a whisper, while Darcy and Erik argue about whether racing Loki up and down the hallways is appropriate; Loki sits there, bemused, and doesn’t comment.  “Once he learns how to get into the wheelchair by himself, this one will be easier for him to use.”

 

Thor nods and looks it over.  The doorways are wider and there are handles in the bath to help Loki lever himself in, which he thinks will be very helpful.  “I agree,” he says.  “My brother, Erik, and I will take this room, then.”

 

“Okay.”  Jane stares at the three in the hallway, chewing on her lip.  Darcy has hold of the handles of the wheelchair, but Erik is in her path and she can’t push forward.  And Loki finally finds Jane and Thor, and his eyes light up.  He smiles slightly, just the corners of his eyes crinkling.

 

“Thor!” he says.  “Have I ever seen a place like this?”

 

“No,” Thor assures him, leaving the room to go to his side, reaching out to clasp his small shoulder.  “I have never seen a place like this either.  It is quite strange, is it not?”

 

“Very.”  His brother looks around again and Thor gently peels Darcy’s hands from the handles so that he can take them himself.

 

She pouts a little and asks, “Okay, Jane, so which one do we get?  I want to get my bags out of the car.”

 

Jane points down the hallway.  “The boys get this one,” she adds, jerking her thumb over her shoulder.

 

“Oooh, nice bath,” Darcy says, peeking inside.  She beams at Loki.  “I am going to have to show you the wonders of daytime television once we get all settled in.  That stuff is _awesome_.”  With one final smile and a wave at Thor, she bounds towards the stairs and disappears.

 

“I’d better go help her,” Jane says with an aggravated sigh.  “She won’t be able to carry all of that stuff by herself.”  She shoves her purse and a couple of room keys at Erik; he almost drops them.  “Keep track of them, please,” she adds, nodding at Thor and Loki, who watch her with interest, and then she’s gone as well.

 

“All right,” Erik says, once the door has swung shut behind Jane and she can no longer hear him.  Shaking his head, he walks back into the room and drops all of her things onto one of the beds.  With nothing else to do, Thor pushes his brother in after him.

 

Loki reaches up with a shaking hand and tugs on Thor’s sleeve.  “What is daytime television?” he asks in a low voice.

 

“I haven’t the faintest,” Thor murmurs back, and he feels more than hears Loki chuckle.

 

Erik looks at them sharply and asks, “Where is Mjolnir?”

 

“Where is what?” Loki says at the same time Thor replies, “Hidden in an alley behind a great green metal box.  She is well concealed, I assure you.”

 

“It will have to be good enough.”  Erik sighs and looks around, rubbing at his still-unshaven cheeks.  Thor thinks that a beard would lend his almost flabby face some weight.  “Loki, would you like to be out of that chair?”

 

His brother doesn’t respond for a moment, considering.

 

“There is a chair over there,” Thor says, pointing.  It is large and equipped with a sizeable pillow.  The whole ensemble looks more interesting than one of the beds, which Loki is surely sick of by now.

 

“All right,” he decides.  “It is well, Mr. Selvig.”

 

So Thor pushes him over—while Erik is puzzling over his last sentence—and lifts him out carefully, stretching the transparent cord to its limits when he settles him down.  Loki holds onto his wrists, and then reaches up with slender fingers to clutch at his hair, tugging too hard in his haste.  “Brother,” he whispers, and Thor’s heart thrills to be called such again.  “I do not—I must ask.  Is he correct?  Are we really…?”

 

He cradles Loki’s face in his hand, feeling his cold skin warm as he touches him.  “We are,” he confirms.  _Gods_ , he does not say.  “It is why you survived such a tremendous fall.”  Perhaps he trusts enough—but the words describing the apple do not come.  The silver woman’s test is cruel; Thor has half a mind to smash her with Mjolnir when he and Loki return to Asgard.

 

“Oh,” says Loki.  His eyes go distant as he thinks on this.  Thor kneels in front of him and gives him all the time he needs, and Erik tactfully retreats to the enormous bathroom.  “But we will go home?” he asks finally.  “When I am healed?”

 

“Of course,” Thor says firmly.  “I will lead you there myself.”  He does not mention Odin’s anger or Asgard’s wariness.  When Loki is healed and they return, he will defend him himself, for decades if need be.

 

Loki relaxes at this and gives him a small smile, and Thor beams back until it hurts, and he pulls his little brother into the circle of his arms.  He hears a puff of startled air by his ear, and then Loki curls his own arms around Thor’s shoulders, clinging with all the strength of a small child.

 

&

 

This ‘daytime television’ is, in fact, a magic box that projects images onto its face.  People shout and laugh and make fire shoot out of strange sticks that they point at each other.  Despite his fascination with people who call themselves ‘agents,’ the combination of excitement and stress puts Loki to sleep in the middle of an episode of a show calling itself NCIS.  The rhythm of what Darcy happily terms ‘gunshots’ fade into the background.

 

He dreams of Thor.  They stand together in a clearing, the trees arching together over their heads, and fight with nails and fists.  Thor is stronger than he is, and though Loki uses every trick in his considerable repertoire, he is still borne down to the leaves below, thrashing and laughing, and Thor pins him easily.  His hair is mussed and that happy smile is painted all over his face.  “Brother,” he says, shaking his head.  “You must know your place.  I can—”

 

He can’t hear Thor speak; his mouth moves, but no sound comes out.  “What?” Loki says, and suddenly Thor stands before him, in the way it is in dreams, and Loki hears himself say, “Thor!  Stop and think, we’re outnumbered.”

 

“Know your place, brother,” Thor snarls, not looking at him but some great blue monster, and Loki’s dream-fingers clench hard into Thor’s arm.  This is _dangerous_.  How dare he, he thinks.  They had to leave or Thor could get hurt.

 

Loki never wanted Thor to get hurt.  In all his plans, he never meant—

 

“ _Loki,_ ” Darcy says again, waving her hand in front of his face.  He jerks back in his seat and stares at her.  “Come on, dude, you’re going to miss the best part!”

 

Disoriented, he turns his gaze back to the agents busting down a door.  One of them growls, “That _traitor_ ” and somehow the words make Loki’s heart clench.

 

&

 

“There is a woman,” Thor says, “who has an orchard.”

 

Jane is dozing at the table, and so only Erik is left to look at him in surprise.  Darcy is keeping Loki busy in the other room, and Thor sits cramped in this tiny chair, his legs jammed together uncomfortably.

 

“A woman,” Erik repeats flatly.

 

He nods.  “Her orchard is quite… unusual.  The apples are golden.”  He says this like that should explain everything.  In the meantime, he sends a vicious thought to the woman herself—why would you let me tell Erik and not Loki, who needs the information more?  “I do not know her, but perhaps—”

 

“Idunn,” Erik says, quite promptly, his eyes going wide again.  “Idunn and her golden apples.  That’s true, too?”

 

“Yes,” Thor says, though since he has only dreamed of her… perhaps she is not real.  But the apple is, he reminds himself.  The apple is very real.

 

“Hmm.”  Erik turns this over for a few minutes, his face gone very distant in the way that Thor remembers from Loki’s deepest thoughts.  It makes his stomach clench.  After all, he barely has to think to remember how his little brother used to be, before his madness and hate—they were both boys, just trying to be men.

 

But then Erik looks at him with all the sharpness of a bard’s accumulated wisdom, and he asks, “Did she give an apple to you?”

 

Thor cannot speak of it, but this time not because of magic.  His throat is clogged with tears.  He merely nods and flicks his eyes towards the room where Loki sits with Darcy, watching her favorite television shows.  He will hold his little brother close tonight, he promises himself, and be sure that no harm comes to him.  Thor will not allow it.

 

“I see,” Erik says.  He props his head up in his hands and sighs.  “And you have not told him because…?”

 

“It is impossible,” Thor forces out.  “She told me that he has to allow it to heal him, and until that time I cannot say anything.  It feels of strong magic.”  He drags a hand through his hair, tangling the blond strands around his thick fingers.  Never before in his life, even in his first trip to Midgard, has he ever felt like such a bumbling fool.  Before, he could save Jane and her friends; now, he cannot save Loki even by sacrificing himself.

 

&

 

They brainstorm for ways to help Loki allow the apple to help him, and even with Jane’s help they can’t think of anything.  Forcing him into it, Thor insists, will only remove the powerful magic from it, and Loki will not be healed at all.  So in the end, they agree to Jane’s plan, which is to keep Thor and Loki together as much as possible, until absolute trust is achieved.  Then, she says, Loki would accept anything from his brother, including a golden apple.

 

This strikes him as slightly duplicitous, but Thor is so attracted to the idea of Loki once more trusting him as brothers should that he agrees.

 

“Fine,” Erik sighs.  “If it makes you two happy to find someplace to start, then I won’t resist.”

 

“Thank you.”  Jane stands and smoothes her hands across her jeans.  “Well, I think we ought to go to bed now and start early tomorrow.  We might be able to explore the city a little—I’ve never been to LA, and it might be fun to see some of the landmarks.  And I brought some of my work here, so at some point Darcy and I need to sit down and go over my equations.”  She pulls her hair back with one hand, smiling at them ruefully.

 

“Very well,” Thor says courteously.  Jane’s work is very important, and besides, he and Erik should be more than capable of keeping track of his little brother.  If Loki had been himself, he would have managed to escape and trick everyone by now; but as he is not, Thor feels confident in his ability to keep him safe.  He gets to his feet.  “Come, Erik.  We should retire.”

 

“Oh, yes,” Erik agrees, sarcastic.  “We should definitely retire, God of Thunder.”  Shaking his head and muttering, he gathers his papers up and tucks them under his arm.  “We’ll send Darcy back, if she isn’t intent on showing Loki CSI or whatever else is left on her list.”

 

Darcy complains, “But I haven’t really shown him CSI yet!”

 

Erik says, “There are many nights in the future, Ms. Lewis.  Please, leave.”

 

Darcy says, “Oh, fine.  You _suck_ at partying.”  And she sulks on out the door, closing it behind her.

 

Poor Loki looks relieved when Thor comes to help him up out of the chair.  He lets Loki’s legs drag against the ground, hoping that he will support his own weight—and he does, though only just barely, and Thor’s heart sinks a little bit.  “I did not understand half of what she showed me,” he confides in Thor, green eyes anxious, but he allows Erik to haul over the metal tank and prop it up against the bed while he speaks.

 

“Midgard is a very confusing place,” he admits to his brother, touching his forehead gently.  “We shall have to puzzle it out together, Loki.”

 

Loki’s smile is radiant.  “I would like that,” he says, and goes to sleep quite amicably.

 

Erik allows him to sleep beside his brother without even arguing, simply stepping into the large bathroom to change into sweatpants and climbing into the middle of the bed, piling up all of the pillows into one great mountain.  Smiling to himself, Thor takes some of his borrowed clothes and does the same, carefully finding the special dimmers on the walls and turning off the lights.

 

His brother only stirs slightly when he climbs into the bed beside him, careful not to jostle his healing body, and though Thor lies awake for an hour, alert for any small sound, eventually he relaxes enough to find Loki’s hand under the covers, holding it carefully in his own.  Only then does he drift to sleep.

 

—and is woken with a start when it is so dark outside that he cannot see his hand in front of his face.  Thor lurches upright, and from across the room Erik curses.  There is a _thud_ as he falls off the mattress.

 

Loki screams and screams, and how he comes up with enough air to make such a horrible noise, Thor has no idea.  He grasps for him in the dark and cries, “Brother!  _Brother!_ ”

 

The light flicks on, revealing a disheveled and shocked Erik standing by the door.  Loki wakes in a jolt, his eyes snapping open, and he looks around the room quickly.  “Thor!” he sobs, and bursts into tears.

 

He gathers his brother up into his arms, his heart pounding in fear, and holds him tightly.  Loki clutches at him with weak fingers and his tears wet the neck of his borrowed shirt.  He looks at Erik, bewildered, and suddenly Loki says, “I had a dream—I do not understand, I do not _understand_.”

 

“Hush,” Thor whispers, stroking a hand from the crown of his shaved head to his shoulders, rubbing in soothing circles.  His muscles remember this from when Loki used to have terrible dreams before.  One time, his little brother burst into his room in the middle of the night and climbed into bed with him, seizing his nightshirt in his fists and blubbering out his dream into his collar.  Neither of them slept.  “Hush, little brother.  I’m here.”

 

Someone bangs on the door, and Erik yanks it open.  Jane stands there, Darcy white as a ghost behind her, her robe wrapped around her.  A hotel employee hovers farther back in the hallway, wringing his hands.  “What’s going on?” Jane demands, taking a step forward.

 

“I hated you,” Loki says, and looks up at Thor with a wet face, tears slipping down his cheeks.  “I hated you so much, but it was really—I do not _know_.  But someone heard.  In all the vastness of space, somebody knows what we are doing, they said so, and now I cannot remember, I am sorry, I am so sorry, I should know—”

 

“Shhhh, Loki, shhhh.”  Thor kisses his forehead and hides Loki’s face in his shoulder, looking up at his friends.  His heart throbs painfully in his throat.

 

“Does that mean someone else is coming?” Darcy asks.  Her fingers cover her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who gave kudos and the commentator! Always a plus, and always helpful for writing new stuff! A bajillion kudos and thankful comments to all y'all.


	10. Act IX: The Dark Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Democracy is awesome!" Darcy shouts, gleeful, and punches the air with her fist.
> 
> (In which Loki has a nightmare and Thor tries to figure out what to do whilst the Astro Team runs low on sleep.)

Loki says, “Thor, I cannot believe you!”

 

Thor doesn’t even have the courtesy to look abashed.  Instead, he’s obviously confused, his brows drawing together in the middle.  “Brother?” he says.

 

“You heard them!”  Loki’s fists clench at his sides, the anger boiling up in his chest and trying to bubble up through his mouth.  “You would not even defend me—”

 

“They are our friends!” Thor protests.  He smiles.  “Loki, it was just a joke.  Surely you would understand—”

 

“That was _disrespect!_ ” Loki shouts.  He paces back and forth, his whole frame quivering, and resists the urge to clutch at his hair.  “Sif has never liked me.”

 

Thor frowns, and Loki despairs at ever getting through his brother’s thick skull.  He doesn’t understand, he growls in his head.  He will _never_ understand.  “Sif is your friend,” Thor says, like this is obvious.  “You are mistaken, brother.  She is only retaliating against your mischief—”

 

“By _mocking_ me?  I will not be bullied, _Thor_ , especially not by a mere woman who so obviously holds me in contempt!”

 

“I do not…” His brother frowns and reaches out to take his hands.  “What is wrong with you, Loki?”

 

“ _Nothing is wrong with me!_ ”  He tore his hands free and stalked away, glaring and bristling, so upset that he can barely speak.  “Do you not see this?  I suppose you think that I am naught but your foolish little brother, just a boy who will follow your every whim—”

 

“—and they just follow you!” Loki almost screams.  He is standing alone in a great golden room, an arching throne behind him, and his shadow falls upon the floor like a stain.  His helmet weighs down his whole body.  “There is no regard for me, their _king_ , their supposed _friend_ , oh, of _course_ —”

 

He slams his staff down and cracks the marble.  Something ugly claws its way up his throat every time he thinks of Thor and his stupid friends— _his_ friends, because they never cared about Loki, not even when they were children—and he can barely control it.  He wants to shriek.  He wants to tear his helmet off and pull out his hair and scream until Asgard itself cracks down the middle, because he is just a pretender, and he will always be a pretender, there is nothing, no way to stand against the splendor that is Thor—how can he, when Thor is golden and perfect, strong and persistent and everything that Loki is not.

 

Loki will never be better than Thor.  Even if he does everything he can think of, he will always be the shadow son, the pretender to everything that is Thor.

 

The sound he makes is torn right from his heart, and he clutches the staff so hard that his bones creak.  “All I ever want is to be your equal,” he whispers.  Of course, Thor does not hear, because Thor is on Midgard and probably not thinking about his so-called brother at all.

 

Suddenly, his vision winks out, and Loki forgets all about his rage in a surge of panic.  He gasps and claps his hands over his mouth.  The staff is gone, and his head feels bare and cold again.  Nervously, he feels all over his face and his fingers scrape against bandages.

 

“Hello?” he calls, like Darcy does when she barges into his room, as if he’s somehow managed to escape.  “Is anyone here?”

 

“ _Loki_ ,” a deep voice growls, and he jumps.  But he makes no noise, and nobody reaches out to grasp his arms or shake him.

 

“Yes, my liege,” murmurs another voice, this one just as deep.  “I am certain it is he.”

 

“ _Ha,_ ” says the first man, but Loki doesn’t think that he’s laughing.  He just sounds… deeply satisfied.  “Then our intelligence has come through?”

 

“Yes, my liege,” repeats the second man, who Loki labels ‘the underling.’  Though he can’t see him, he sounds like his eyes are lowered, his whole posture submissive.  He notices all of this in the small corner of his brain that isn’t panicking.  What do they want with him?  Something rustles—it sounds like paper.  “My king’s spies have—”

 

“They are not spies,” says the king coldly.  “They are rightful investigators of the throne.  No realm may deny our right, after what has happened.”  He chuckles once, again without any trace of amusement.  “Not even Asgard will move to save him.”

 

“My lord Helbindi,” mutters the underling, more a reminder that he is still there than anything else.

 

 _Helbindi._   The name does not even ring a faint bell, and Loki stands there, frustrated and frightened, his hands still over his mouth.  They cannot see him, just as he cannot see them, and yet he does not understand how it is that they hate him so much.  This Helbindi knows his name— _Loki_ —and after all, how many Lokis can there be?  If he is a god, like Thor insists, then Loki is his name and no one else’s.  And yet he is helpless, more so than ever with these wounds—and how _is_ he standing?

 

Dream, he reminds himself.

 

“Ah, yes!” cries King Helbindi.  Something crunches and heavy _thud_ s ring in his ears.  Terrified, Loki tries to shrink back, but his feet are rooted to the ground; standing though he is, he still cannot walk.  The King is laughing, a terrible, humorless noise, like an avalanche, snow grating against rock.  Loki understands a little, then, that this man is a monster.  His footsteps—surely they must be footsteps—they are heavy and so loud, nothing at all like how even Thor walks.  Thor, strong Thor, is light as a cat.

 

“What is it?” the underling asks, like a child in his eagerness.  He, too, has steps of iron and frozen blood.  Cold leaks into the strange nothingness where Loki stands, and he shivers pathetically, unable to tear his hands from his mouth.  His breath warms his fingertips.

 

“I have found his weakness!”  Helbindi’s voice is triumphant—the first real emotion Loki has heard—and he laughs again, with dark joy.  “ _I have found it!_ ” he roars, daring the universe to challenge him, and hidden as he is Loki quivers in fear.  His muscles turn to jelly and only his locked knees keep him upright.  He does not understand.  He does not _understand_.

 

The underling gibbers something.  The words smear around him, mushy and indistinct, and Loki cries out, “Wait!”  Nobody hears him.

 

“ _Loki,_ ” whispers Helbindi, his voice stretched and strange, dripping into Loki’s ear.  “We are coming.”

 

“ _Brother!_ ”

 

&

 

Dreams melt away like sugar on the tongue, and though Loki tries, he cannot explain.  Even to himself, he cannot articulate the stress of his dream—only a dream, Thor insists, brushing his palm over Loki’s forehead.  “’Twas only a dream,” he says.  “Put it out of your mind, brother.”

 

Loki shakes his head, stubborn.  “It was _not_ ,” he insists.  “I know about dreams.  Or—I think I do.  But this was nothing like that, Thor.  It was _real_.”

 

They’ve barricaded themselves into the handicapped room—pushing chairs up against the door is Darcy’s idea, and though Erik obviously thinks it foolish he complies and helps her move them.  Jane sits on the bed opposite Thor and Loki, anxious, her hands clenched in her lap.  She looks sleep-muddled and confused, though not quite as much as a still unshaven Erik and quite a bit more than Darcy, who seems to have gotten over her initial fright.

 

“This is _so cool,_ ” Darcy says then.  “It’s like a sleepover!”  And she bounces over to grin at everyone until the strange looks dim her enthusiasm slightly.

 

“If your brother says it was real, we should probably trust him,” Erik says from one of the chairs by the door.  He’s crumpled in it, exhausted, and he rubs at his face with the heels of his hands.  “I would trust his judgment over yours in this, Thor.”

 

“Hmph,” says Jane.

 

“So,” says Darcy, drawing out the word until her mouth forms an ‘o’ shape.  “There’s somebody out there who hates your guts, Loki, but we don’t know who he is or what he’s doing.  How do we even know he’s an alien?  Maybe it’s one of those government types, you know, who’s all pissed off about the—”

 

“He said he was a king,” Thor interrupts quickly.  He smiles at Loki and squeezes his shoulder.  “I am not mistaken, I think, that you do not have many kings left on Midgard?  Quite a rudimentary system of rule.”

 

“Democracy is awesome!” Darcy shouts, gleeful, and punches the air with her fist.

 

“Thor’s right, Darcy,” Jane says on a sigh.  “I don’t know of any kings, to be honest, much less any with a name that Loki would recognize.”

 

“Helbindi,” Erik mutters.  He tastes it on his tongue and frowns.  “I know his name,” he says.  “There must be stories of this man, but I cannot remember what they are.  My favorites were always about the biggest gods.”  His face turns a little red.

 

“Since it’s not Queen Elizabeth after our resident trickster god, it has to be an alien,” Jane says.  “More space vikings, possibly?”

 

Thor shakes his head.  “No.  I would know of this Helbindi if he was of Asgard.”  He frowns and clenches one hand into a fist.  “If I had Mjolnir,” he growls, “I would crack his skull for his insolence.  Father will not be pleased.”

 

“Helbindi said that he would not help me,” Loki says quietly.

 

“He lies,” says Thor, firm, and he rests his hand on Loki’s neck briefly.  He cannot miss the relief that wells up in his brother’s eyes, and his heart squeezes.  Frigga would not let Odin wait to protect his sons, he is certain of it.  If this Helbindi, whoever he may be, makes a move towards Loki, he knows that Asgard will return the favor.

 

He _hopes_ Asgard will return the favor.  It must, or he will never forgive Odin for his treachery.

 

“Hmph,” says Jane again, but not like she’s listening to them.  Her eyes are very far away, and her small shoulders curl.  She looks even littler than usual, and Thor realizes that all three of them are frightened—well, Erik and Jane are, anyway.  Darcy seems to have forgotten about the danger.

 

“Loki said that they do not know where he is,” he pipes up quickly.

 

“They did not _say_ that they did,” murmurs Loki.  “But that means nothing.”

 

Thor deflates a little.  Erik leans his head back against the door and closes his eyes, and Jane draws even tighter into herself.  He forces a smile and pats Loki’s shoulder.  “It is nothing,” he says.  “We will be gone before anyone can get here, and we will report to Father what we have found.  Fret not, Lady Jane—we will protect you.”

 

“I’m not fretting,” Jane says, startled, her big brown eyes blinking.  She turns a little pink, which Thor can’t help thinking is an attractive shade on her skin.  And his efforts yield a reward, for she smiles tentatively at him and sits up a little bit straighter.

 

“Aliens might be kind of cool, though,” Darcy protests.  She clasps her hands in front of her and pretends to swoon.  “I mean, seriously, how many army hunks would come if even one alien landed here?  Sign me up!”

 

“Darcy, I think you’re missing the point.”  But Jane tugs her gently down to the bed, much like a mother hen clucking over a single chick.  Thor does not have Loki’s skills of observation, but it is obvious that even though Jane pretends to be annoyed with Darcy, they are close friends.  It warms his heart to see them so.  They remind him of Sif and the Warriors Three, and for a moment he can imagine that they are all comrades-in-arms and nothing is wrong.

 

But Loki ruins it by shifting and blinking at all of them with eyes too big for the rest of his face.  For all that he is so much taller than Jane, he looks even more fragile and scared.  “So what are we going to do?” he asks.

 

“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Erik says suddenly.  “But I am going to find out who this Helbindi is.  Information is the greatest weapon of all.”

 

“Woah, really?” Darcy says.  “Are you going to use the internet?  I didn’t bring my computer and I don’t know where your laptop is.”

 

“My laptop is sitting on my desk at home,” Erik says primly.  He gets to his feet and shuffles into the room with the rest of them, crossing his arms over his belly.  “Los Angeles is an enormous city.  I’m sure that there are many, many libraries.  I’ll use the van and drive around until I find one; it will not be hard to find books on Norse mythology once I arrive.”

 

Loki’s eyes light up.  “A _library?_ ” he says, fascinated.  He turns to Thor.  “I can almost—do we have a library at home?”

 

Thor nods, but he is barely listening, turning Erik’s words over in his head.  The library will have information about the stories of Asgard, Erik says.  Will there be words on the apple?  Perhaps he can find how to heal Loki if he goes.

 

“I wish to go with you to this library,” he announces.  “If you will accept my company, Erik Selvig, I will be satisfied.”

 

“All… right,” says Erik, flummoxed.  He rubs at his face again.  “Fine.  You can come with me, I don’t care.”

 

“Ooh!” cries Darcy.  “Does this mean that we can watch more television?  I thought up more shows before I fell asleep!  It’ll be awesome.  C’mon, Jane, you should watch with us this time.  Okay?”

 

“I—what?” says Jane, jolted out of her thoughts.

 

“More television?” Loki asks, mournful, but by the way Darcy beams at him she doesn’t hear this.

 

“Television is the best invention in the universe, up to and including your brother,” she says firmly.  “Don’t worry, Loki, you’ll love it.  I don’t think cop shows are really your thing, you know?  You seem more like the type of guy who would appreciate drama and fashion.  And don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”  She nods and grins, pushing her glasses up her nose, obviously very pleased with herself.

 

“Oh,” says Loki.

 

Yet Thor cannot help but think that Darcy may succeed in coaxing his little brother out, bring back the mischief-loving, tricky little boy that he remembers.  And he trusts Jane to watch over both of them.  “Worry not, brother,” he says expansively.  “Erik and I will find the root of this problem.”

 

“Thank you,” Loki murmurs.  But his cheeks are still tight when he turns away and closes his eyes, ignoring them all like he’s all alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to fireblazie and mikkey_bones for looking over my chapter notes and assuring that the end of this story is not, in fact, criminally retarded. Chapters should (hopefully) come faster now that I actually know what I'm doing.
> 
> As usual, thanks so much to everyone who left kudos and/or commented! You guys make my day. I basically hop around singing when I see that, just fyi.


	11. Act X: The Archives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ah," Erik says. "So that is how you stopped him."
> 
> (In which Thor and Erik go to the library and Darcy makes Jane and Loki watch Project Runway.)

Loki pretends to still be asleep when Erik and Thor awaken and begin to move around.  The dream haunts the corners of his consciousness; the man’s deep, cold voice makes him shiver, and he tries to curl up without making it obvious.

 

“You both make it impossible to sleep,” Erik mutters, low and rough.  “Just my luck—meeting figures from childhood stories and your little brother is crazy.”

 

“He is _not_ ,” Thor says in response, coming to Loki’s defense with a swiftness that is both endearing and somehow familiar.  He squeezes his eyes tightly shut.  He can’t handle these fake memories right now.  The real ones are too upsetting.

 

(He loves Thor; he hates him.  He hates Thor; he loves him.  He is going to be torn apart.)

 

“Loki is well,” Thor says quietly, almost like he’s trying to convince himself.  “He _will_ be well.  Speak not of things you do not understand, Erik Selvig.”

 

Erik does not reply.  He shuffles around the room, collecting clothes, and though Thor may be oblivious to the tension Loki senses it.  This elderly mortal has not slept soundly in several days; of course he is tired of placating Thor and his mad little brother.  _I am mad,_ Loki thinks.  _I am not mad._

 

“Brother,” Thor whispers, alarmingly close.  Loki jumps and his eyes fly open.  His brother smiles, touches his shoulder with one heavy hand.  “Erik and I are leaving on a quest for the library.  Lady Jane and Darcy will return for you.”  His hair is still sticking up around his head, as though he pulled on his shirt and immediately searched for Loki, and his fingers ache to smooth it down and smack Thor’s forehead.  The motion seems so familiar and yet he cannot place it.

 

“I know,” he mutters, a little resentful with the not knowing, and turns laboriously onto his side so he may pretend to ignore Thor.  Of course, his oaf of a brother does not notice.  He pats Loki’s back and then wanders off to, by the sound of it, clap his hand to Erik’s shoulder.  Poor Erik Selvig groans in protest.

 

At last they depart, thumping out into the hallway and someone— _Thor_ —slams the door behind him.  Loki clenches his hands into fists and presses them against his mouth.  He must compose himself before Jane feels compelled to sit beside him, her eyes anxious.  She is much quieter than her companion, and yet Loki feels her soft gaze.  Lady Jane is fond of Thor—overly fond, in his opinion, if they are all not telling him falsehoods about immortality.  And she looks upon him as a small bird with a broken wing, and though she wishes to touch him and keep him calm he will not allow her.  He had not noticed before last night, when he revealed his weakness to all of them.

 

He is no fool.  He will not show these mortals how that dream has hurt him.  He doesn’t think that he could stand it.

 

Loki has himself under reasonable control when somebody knocks on the door and comes bounding in.  “ _Loki!_ ” Darcy sings.  She takes a flying leap onto the bed, bouncing him everywhere, and shakes his shoulder.  “Come _on_ , lazy pants.  Time’s a-wasting!”

 

Darcy is impossible to understand; he just groans in response.

 

“We’re going to _our_ room today,” she says cheerfully, apparently unmoved by his plight.  “The TV is in a better place anyway.  C’mon, man, get a bath and we’ll go on over.  Jane has some cool food that we want you to try.”

 

When he opens his eyes, Darcy is smiling at him, and not like she thinks that he’s crippled or pathetic—more like a sister or a close friend who thinks that he is genuinely fun.  It unknots something tight inside him and so it hurts less when he relents.  “Very well,” he says, in as dignified a manner as he can manage.  Loki feels that it says something about him, that he mostly manages.  “Assist me.”

 

“Ooooh,” Darcy says.  “I like that.  You are _so_ posh.”

 

Loki sighs.

 

&

 

“Put on your seatbelt,” Erik says abruptly, as soon as they’ve pulled out of the drive.  Thor seeks it out and does as he is told.

 

Erik has deep shadows under his eyes and the rough beginnings of a beard on his chin.  He keeps rubbing at his forehead with the heel of his palm and making strange grumbling noises under his breath.  Thor watches him with interest before it occurs to him that this could be rude, to a man of Midgard, and so he looks away and stares out the window instead.

 

In the far distance, he can make out tall buildings against the horizon, half-hidden in haze.  He wishes that they could get closer, so he could compare their height to some of the architectural marvels of Asgard.  But a library is more important than buildings, tall and impressive as they may be, so he contents himself with looking at the low houses with rolling lawns.  Some of them have roofs made out of clay tiles, which he finds quaint.

 

Erik asks, “You have libraries in Asgard?”

 

“Naturally,” Thor says.  This reminds him of speaking to Jane about the Bifrost, as they drove to the SHIELD compound.  “My brother knows most about them,” he adds.  “He used to spend all of his time there, reading about spells and… other things.”  A lump forms in his throat at the thought of Loki, gangly with adolescence, great tomes in his arms.  Or Loki, older, his dark hair slicked back from his forehead and his eyes sparkling with mischief, words and ideas gathered from tales.

 

“He sounds very… odd,” Erik says.  “Your brother.  When he knows who he is, anyway.”

 

“He is very clever,” Thor replies, somewhat defensively.  He rubs his hands together and then folds them in his lap.  “I have known nobody half so intent on trickery, or so very loyal.”  Loyal to Thor up until he went mad—the constant companion.  His whole being aches with thinking of it.  He looks away and stares fixedly out the window at the passing scenery.

 

“Hmm,” mumbles Erik.  He leans over the steering wheel, face turned down at the corners, and sighs heavily as though put-upon.  Despite himself, Thor smiles; Erik’s eyes twinkle.  He is very quick, this man.  Thor had already liked him because of his concern for Jane, and now, even though they have deprived him of much-needed sleep, Thor cannot help but feel that Erik may care for Loki, too.  Even if Erik had not been smart, Thor would respect him for that.

 

“Thank you,” he says, and he believes that Erik understands.

 

They spend the rest of the ride in companionable silence, the sort that Thor remembers from the calm times with Sif and the Warriors Three.  It eases something twisted inside his chest.  He looks out of the metal steed and, by force of habit, remembers how to get back to the hotel; Erik peers at metal signs and follows where they point, turning the wheel in his aging hands.

 

“Ah, here we are,” Erik says when they are stopped and other cars thunder by in front of them.  He points, and there is a sign which says LIBRARY in great letters, a book depicted next to it.  An arrow directs them farther down the street.

 

“I have not been in a library in many years,” he confides in Erik.  “Knowledge is not prized in Asgard as it should be, and so I spent less time with great tomes than forged metal.  Loki would be the best person to help you find the answers that you seek.”

 

“Well, your brother is probably getting his bandages drawn on as we speak,” says Erik reasonably.  “So I suspect that your help is better than none.”  He smiles wryly in Thor’s direction and asks, as the cars start to move, “What is it like, in Asgard?”

 

So Thor tells him.  He describes the great golden towers, the palace high and broad in the middle of the city, with great lodgings for the common people arrayed around it.  The trees and parks of the city, winding around the fjords and mountains that ring Asgard, he remembers as green swaths from the tallest tower in the palace.  He tells Erik of his favorite monument, the floating walls that form concentric circles, representing the full lives of the warriors who brought the Casket of Ancient Winters from Jotunheim and installed it in the weapons’ vault, and the great sacrifice of their comrades who fell along the way.

 

They pull into the parking lot of the library as he says, “Heimdall’s observatory used to be at the end of the Bifrost, but that is ruined now.”

 

“Ah,” Erik says.  “So that is how you stopped him.”

 

Thor blinks at him.  “Stopped…?” he begins, and then he remembers that Erik Selvig is a very smart man.

 

“Well, here we are!” Erik almost shouts.  He opens the door and tries to get out before unbuckling his seatbelt, and he grunts when it catches him around the middle.  Thor undoes his own buckle slowly and steps onto the hot pavement.  The heat strikes him in the face and tries its best to bow his shoulders, but he will not move.

 

“That is the library?” he asks, surprised.  “It is… very small.”

 

The library is a completely unimpressive building, long and low, with a sign outside professing that this is, in fact, the place of knowledge.  He remembers the archives in the palace, with great carvings on the walls and intricately gilded bookcases, and is suddenly glad that Loki didn’t come.  He will not let his brother’s first new memory of a library be such a place.

 

“Probably not what you’re used to, but it will do the trick,” Erik says when he comes up, frowning and massaging his gut.  “It’s bigger than the library in Puente Antiguo, that’s for sure.  Don’t be so disappointed—it could be a lot worse.”

 

“A Son of Odin is never disappointed,” Thor says loftily, but only to see the quirk of Erik’s lips.

 

The library is even smaller on the inside than it looked from without, and Thor pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans and wanders through the stacks, neck craned to read the spines of these strangely shiny tomes.  When he pulls one off the shelf, it crackles in his hand, and he catches sight of writing on the back.  He reads it over with slowly growing wonder.

 

“Erik,” he says when he finds him again.  His friend is engrossed in a book titled MYTHOLOGIES FROM AROUND THE WORLD, which bewilders Thor for a moment until he remembers that Asgard is just a story to these mortals.  “Is it possible to just take a book from here?  Any book?”

 

“Of course,” Erik says without looking up.  He turns a page and frowns, rubbing at his lower lip with his thumb.  “That’s what a library is for.  You take out however many books you want.”

 

“I see.”  And Thor _does_ see.  With the book still in his hand, he leaves Erik and goes back to the stacks, finding a section labeled NONFICTION, an entire shelf of NEW ARRIVALS, everything he could ever imagine.  He carefully selects a children’s book about magical owls, something on the workings of calculus (which Thor does not understand, but the complex numbers on the inside caught his eye), a book proclaiming itself to be the ‘best crime novel in years,’ and the diary of a man exploring the frontier.  It is only when he holds them carefully in his arms that he seeks out Erik again.

 

“There you are,” Erik begins, and then he stops and looks.  “What do you have?”

 

“A gift,” Thor says, “for my brother.  He loves books.  May I take these back for him?  He will enjoy them greatly.”  He looks into Erik’s eyes, hopeful, and waits for his verdict.  He does not know how the people of Midgard take such books and bring them back, but he has Erik with him for the details.  Loki will love having something to read again.

 

Erik sighs and covers his face with one hand.  He, too, has books under his arm.  “Very well,” he says.  “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

&

 

“Project Runway is the best show ever,” Darcy explains.  She hugs her legs to her chest and grins at them.

 

“I thought CSI was,” Loki says.

 

“That’s just a figure of speech.  Nobody actually likes that show anymore—but seriously!  Look at this!  It’s _fabulous_.”

 

Loki does not argue, because one does not argue with Darcy Lewis.  He notices that Jane does not protest, either, though she watches the television with an expression of great bewilderment on her face.  She keeps rubbing her hands together and pressing them to her thighs.

 

“Nerds love Project Runway,” Darcy says, like she is pronouncing a new law of the universe.  “You two are nerds.  Therefore, you love Project Runway.”  She grins.  “I am a genius.  Right?  Right?”

 

“Darcy,” Jane says, “shut up.  The judges are coming on.”

 

Darcy is right about one thing, Loki thinks: this show is the best thing he has ever seen.

 

They’re all so absorbed watching a woman burst into tears—“God, she was a bitch anyway,” Jane says, and Loki replies, “Not as much as the man with the mowhawk”—that they don’t notice, at first, when Erik Selvig comes back into the room.

 

Then Thor shouts, “My friends!”

 

Loki thinks, _Does he have to be so loud?_   And then he realizes that Thor has always been this way and it shocks him into silence, remembering something and being _sure_ that it’s real.

 

“Hello, Thor,” Jane and Darcy chorus, not looking away from the television.

 

Thor ignores them completely, a huge grin on his face and eyes alight.  He comes to collapse onto the bed beside Loki and drops a bag into his lap.  “I brought something for you,” he says.  “You will like it, brother, I swear it.”

 

At that, the two girls do turn away from Project Runway to watch.  A little confused, Loki opens the bag and looks inside.  He gasps and pulls out a book in trembling hands, trying to balance it between his fingers when his whole body seems to be rebelling.  “Thor,” he says, voice thick with emotion.  “ _Brother_.”

 

“They are for you,” Thor tells him softly, touching his wrist.  His bones steady.  “All of them.  Erik was truly wonderful—he helped me take them out for you, he did.  I know that you will enjoy them.”  Suddenly he is very shy, just a boy hoping to impress his little brother.  “I picked them out myself.”

 

Carefully, Loki puts his arms around Thor’s neck and hugs him with all of his strength, burying his face in his shoulder.  The dream is far away now, hidden behind peach fabric and the pages of these books, and though everyone is watching he is not afraid to let the tears well in his eyes and whisper, “ _Thank you_ , brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to all the people who gave kudos and the person who commented! It was all wonderful and I appreciate you guys so much :'D
> 
> We're just over halfway there, people! I hope you've enjoyed the ride so far, and I promise that soon enough it will get more exciting. (Finally have the whole thing planned out ahahaha.)


	12. Act XI: In Memoriam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Walking lessons?" asks Jane. "Are you sure that we're qualified for this?"
> 
> (In which Jane, Darcy, and Thor are not qualified for this.)

“Okay, so here’s the plan,” Darcy says.  She stands before the three of them with her hands on her hips, legs akimbo.  “I like coffee, Thor likes coffee, ergo Loki will like coffee.  I think that’s a great incentive, yeah?”  She grins proudly.

 

They stare at her.  Jane looks skeptical of this plan at best, and Loki, exhausted, dark rings under his eyes, doesn’t much react at all.

 

“Coffee?” Thor inquires.  “This is a drink?”

 

“You liked it the last time you were here,” Jane says, surprised.

 

“Yeah,” says Darcy with relish.  “And then you smashed stuff.  It was awesome.”

 

“Ah, yes.”  Thor remembers now.  This ‘coffee’—he quite liked it, as far as he can recall.  “Brother,” he says, touching Loki’s shoulder gently with the tips of his fingers.  “You will like this drink.  It is quite delicious.”

 

“Oh,” says Loki.  He blinks blearily upwards.  He still has not been sleeping very well; at night, he tosses and turns as much as his body will allow, sometimes making small, wounded noises low in his throat.  In the morning, Thor wakes to find that Loki has somehow collected all of his books from the bedside table and sleeps wrapped around them, hugging the calculus textbook to his chest.

 

“So I figure it’s a great treat at the end of our glorious journey,” says Darcy, spreading her arms wide.  “We make it down the street, we get to a coffee shop, we all drink something, and voila!  Mission accomplished.”

 

“So… wait,” Jane says.  “What are we doing?”

 

“It’s an amazing idea.  You can thank me for having it!”  Darcy grins and then amends, “Well, I suppose that some of it was Erik.  But really the ‘genesis of the idea’ came from me.  We’re going to teach _him_ ”—and here she points at Loki with one unerringly straight finger—“how to walk again.”

 

There is a moment of stunned silence.  Even Loki wakes up enough to gape.

 

“Walking lessons?” asks Jane.  “Are you sure that we’re qualified for this?”

 

“Probably not,” Darcy admits.  “But it needs to be done, you know?”

 

Thor looks down at his brother, whose eyes still linger on Darcy’s face.  He seems so small and fragile in the wheelchair, his arms folded quietly in his lap.  Thor just wants his brother back.  Perhaps walking will help him heal.

 

“Brother,” he says softly.  Loki jumps and blinks up at him, eyes wide.  “This is a good idea, I should think.”

 

“I see.”  Loki turns it over for a moment before looking sharply at Jane and Darcy.  “You will not laugh?” he checks, voice rising.

 

“Of course not!” Jane exclaims, a little hurt.  “I would never laugh at you.”

 

“Unless it was super funny,” Darcy says.  “But seriously, dude, this is real stuff.”

 

Whatever that meant, Thor takes it to mean that Darcy will not laugh at his crippled little brother.  After more thinking, Loki apparently does too.  “Very well,” he says.  “How shall we do this?”

 

Darcy squeals and claps her hands.  “Yay!” she says.  “I’m so glad this worked out!”

 

Thor gently lifts Loki to his feet, and holds him up as Jane grabs the wheelchair and puts it in front of him, until his little brother can take the handles.  Then she sits down and braces her feet against the paving.

 

They stand in the parking lot, contemplating a sidewalk and its route down along the road towards the mythical coffee shop.  “Scootch over,” Darcy says, squeezing into the chair alongside Jane.

 

“We should be heavy enough now to keep it stable,” Jane says.

 

“Very well.”  Thor looks over the arrangement with a careful eye.  Loki watches him, pale and shaking, a white-knuckled grip on the handles of the chair.  “I will stay beside you, brother,” he says.  “Fret not.  We will push the moving chair until we reach the site of coffee, yes?”

 

“Yep,” chirps Darcy.

 

“I believe I understand,” Loki says slowly.  He straightens up a little and orders, “Thor, release me.”

 

Thor does as he is told, though he does not move very far away.  Immediately, Loki nearly falls with a gasp of fright; Thor grasps him about the middle and heaves him upright again.

 

“I have a better idea,” he says.  “Allow me to hold onto you for some yards, brother, until you understand the rhythm better.  Yes?”

 

“Very well,” says Loki through clenched teeth.  But he doesn’t try to pinch Thor when he secures his grip, which seems enough like progress that Thor is happy.

 

Truthfully, their initial progress is the slowest ever seen in any of the Nine Realms, since much of the forward momentum relies on Loki pushing, and Loki is very bad at pushing.  His feet scrabble at the ground and he keeps drooping like he’d prefer to just fall down and roll around rather than keep going.

 

Darcy, honestly, is of no help when she bounces in her seat, saying, “Coffee coffee coffee coffee.”

 

Jane winces and says, “Darcy, please!  Loki is trying to walk!”

 

“Thor is just dragging me,” Loki complains.  “How is this supposed to teach me how to walk?”

 

“I have an idea,” Jane says.  “Darcy, let me up, and spread out your weight so the chair doesn’t tip over.”  She comes to Loki’s other side, kneels down, and then glances back up again, her face flushing.  “Do you mind if I touch you and rearrange your legs a bit?”

 

Loki turns red, too, but he says, “Yes, fine.”  Thor smiles at him and resists the urge to do something childish, like kiss his cheek.

 

Very carefully, Jane takes Loki’s ankles and moves them until his legs are straight.  “Now, push forward slowly,” she orders, her face creased with concentration.  Together, Thor and Loki do so, and Jane guides Loki’s legs with her hands.  “Bend like that,” she says.  “You’re just sort of dragging your feet along.  Try to pick them up a bit.”

 

“Jane,” says Thor, admiring.  “You are very clever.”

 

She looks up at him and blushes.  “Thank you,” she says.  “Good job, Loki!  That’s it.  Keep doing it like that.”

 

With Jane shuffling along beside, guiding Loki’s legs, and Thor supporting his weight, they take the next two stoplights at a reasonable clip.  Crossings are slightly trickier, since they are so slow, and at one point Thor has to seize Loki and run with all of them to the other side before an enormous steed runs them over.

 

“This is far too exciting,” Loki proclaims.  “I want to go back to the hotel.”

 

“We are _not_ going back to the hotel,” Jane says firmly.  “I hate those rooms.  Besides, if we go back, Erik will just make us participate in his research, and too many people researching one thing never works out well.”  She says this like it’s something everybody should know.

 

Erik, at that moment, is busy reading through his own acquisitions from the archives, searching for an answer to Loki’s illness.  “We should bring him back a coffee,” Thor says, thinking of how much work Erik is putting into healing his brother.  He, too, deserves more than just a coffee, but it will be a good start.

 

“Oh, good idea,” says Darcy enthusiastically.  “We should!”

 

“I hate walking,” Loki grumbles.

 

But Jane’s tutoring seems to be working.  Loki lifts his legs higher and leans (slightly) less on Thor once he realizes that, despite his wobbly legs, he won’t fall over, especially with Thor there to catch him.

 

And finally, over the horizon, appears the fabled coffee shop.  Their group lets out a ragged cheer, and Jane finally gets fully to her feet to walk beside Loki, exaggerating her own movements until she manages to coax forth a small smile from Loki, who immediately tries to cover it up.  But Thor sees it nevertheless, and when his brother isn’t looking, he shoots Jane a grateful smile of his own.

 

“We’re here!” Darcy cries, almost falling off the wheelchair in her excitement.  Loki sways alarmingly, the wheelchair nearly falls onto its back, and Thor catches them both. 

 

Tucking Loki securely into his side, he growls at Darcy, “Stay in your seat, please.”  And she resumes her spot with a fully contrite expression.

 

They arrive in considerable style—Loki stumbling with each step, Jane’s knees scuffed with dust, Darcy lounging in the chair like it belongs to her, and Thor pushing them all along.  The other patrons stare open-mouthed, especially when Loki gasps, “We made it!” and slumps to the floor.

 

“Brother!” cries Thor in alarm.

 

Ten minutes later, they are all safely ensconced at a table in the corner, as far from everyone’s curious gazes as they could manage.  Everyone has what Darcy called “iced chocolate mochas, the best drink in the world.”  It really is quite good, even though sipping through a straw is terribly unmanly.  Even Loki enjoys it, if his expression is anything to go by.

 

“I say this expedition was a success,” Darcy says when she finishes hers.  “High-fives all around!”  And, after teaching the pair of Asgardians what a high-five is, they throw away their trash and start back, bolstered by chocolate and caffeine.

 

&

 

Loki lies flat on his back, still gasping for breath.  His legs burn and ache even when he isn’t trying to move.

 

“Oh, calm down,” Darcy says.  She’s in charge of watching over him while Erik interrogates Thor and Jane on what they know—what they know on _what?_   He doesn’t understand.  “You’re still alive, and we’re watching more fashion shows.  What could be better?”  She shrugs at him and turns back to the television.

 

Maybe it’s the pain, but Loki can’t focus on ‘calming down’ just this moment.  _He’s_ the one who is sick—why can’t he participate in the meetings Erik insists on having?  Even Thor said that he ought to stay behind, when he inquired.  He does not quite understand what the problem is, or why he must be kept so in the dark.

 

“Darcy,” he says suddenly.  “Thor has been here once before, yes?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Darcy replies.  She tears her eyes away from the TV to look at him.  “Yeah, he turned up and Jane totally hit him with her car.  Like, _twice_.  And I tasered him,” she adds proudly.

 

“Tasered?” Loki repeats blankly.

 

“Never mind.  It doesn’t matter.  But basically, yeah, he showed up, and it was _awesome_.”  Grinning, she sits and stares at him.

 

“Why was I not there?” he asks.  “If we are brothers, and so close….”

 

Darcy’s face closes abruptly.  “Why you weren’t there?” she says.  “Um, I don’t really know.  Nobody told me all that much.”  She laughs, but it isn’t her usual Darcy laugh, the one that Loki would believe.

 

She’s lying, he realizes.  She knows exactly why Loki wasn’t there to support Thor in his venture, whatever it was.  The tension in his chest hurts, now.

 

“Anyway, no biggie,” says Darcy, and she is a terrible liar.  “Want to keep watching TV?”  She resolutely turns her back to him and hugs her legs to her chest, watching over her knees with wide eyes.

 

Loki does not press her further.  Instead, he thinks back over everything he can remember: Jane’s wariness when she first arrived, Darcy’s fascination, his own brother’s refusal to tell him his true heritage, and now this, all of this secrecy, and Darcy’s lies.  Why wouldn’t Thor tell him?

 

Surely, he tells himself, like Darcy says, it is ‘no biggie.’  Thor would tell him if Loki asked.

 

( _Would he?_ a voice whispers in the back of his head.  _They aren’t telling you all of this for a reason.  Is there something else you’ve forgotten, something very, very important?_ )

 

I wouldn’t, he thought desperately.  His dreams show Thor as his brother, that much is true, but then there are the dreams where Thor is angry or afraid, and Loki feels desperate and out of control, so angry he can barely speak.  What of those dreams?  Do they, too, speak the truth?  And if they do, what is Thor keeping from him?  What are _they_ keeping from him, for surely Jane and Darcy and Erik know as well, what he has done.

 

(They only wouldn’t say something if it was something terrible, wouldn’t they?)

 

Loki would never do something terrible.  He _wouldn’t_.  He tells himself this all afternoon, and does not ask Thor about what happened here last time, though he thinks that he sees Darcy whispering to Jane as they leave.

 

They are keeping secrets from him—but are they secrets _about_ him?  What does that mean?  And when Thor smiles at him and bids him good night, Loki looks deeply into his eyes and wishes he could find the truth.

 

( _Perhaps you wouldn’t want the truth.  Be careful what you wish for, Loki._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the very, very long delay, but school started and I was discouraged and all that jazz. Thank you so much to the lovely commentator who got me back into this (you know who you are, Mikkeneko!), and thanks in advance to everyone who keeps on reading!
> 
> Next chapter: shit gets real. Just saying.


	13. Act XII: The Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (When he was small, he used to have nightmares about frost giants.)
> 
> In which shit gets real.

Loki walks across great fields of snow.  Looming about him are tall, dark towers, crumbling into rubble.  Looking at it makes his skin crawl.

 

He hates this place.  The last time he was here, he had his stupid golden brother and his brother’s stupid friends, and he was just a child, a _nobody_ , because he didn’t know yet, did he, didn’t know about the monster lurking in the mirror with his face and he wants to _claw his own face off_ —

 

But he cannot.  He _cannot_.  Loki reminds himself that he is here for a purpose, just as Odin was here for a purpose, just as Thor was here for a purpose, and his is just and right and the only thing he can possibly think of to make everything right again, how it is _supposed_ to be.

 

None of the monsters come out to challenge him, though he can feel their gazes on him as he makes his way towards what remains of their primitive palace.  A disgusted shudder twists down his spine.

 

_(When he was small, he used to have nightmares about frost giants.)_

 

Stay calm, he tells himself.  Stay calm.  His hand clenches, and he should be cold, so cold, but not even the metal on his shoulder bites into his skin, and right there he longs to drop to his knees and scream and howl at the white flakes in the sky, _see what you’ve made of me, Father, see what you’ve done!_

 

It is pathetic, what remains of this race of monsters.  They cannot even be bothered with upkeep of their supposed royal city—like it can even be _called_ that.  Nothing in Asgard could possibly compare to this squalor.  Loki can’t believe that anything could live here, much less live here _happily_.

 

Then again, they are monsters, aren’t they?

 

_(When he was small, he used to have nightmares about frost giants.  They would come in through the doors and murder his parents, push a spear into Mother’s belly and cut Father’s throat.)_

 

He is standing where he stood a scant few days ago, behind Thor, behind Thor’s friends _friends who won’t even trust him the traitors they will all die if he can manage it he will bathe himself in their blood and drink it for dessert_ and it feels so strange, to be here alone.  Loki takes a moment to pause and look up at the great, crumbling ruin, imagining Father conquering this place.  He takes great care to keep his face expressionless, but something tight inside of him relaxes.

 

_Father_.  _His_ Father, _his_.  He may yet be a Jotun runt, a whelp, nothing like his great and glorious and merciful Father, but he will be, he _will be_ , and therein lies the rub.  Loki will turn his back on this wretched place.  He won’t be a monster.  He will be _Loki_ , named by Father, raised by Father, and he remembers when Father used to pat his head, when he was small and scared.

 

Father will be proud.  He knows this like he knows his own name.  He—not Thor not Thor _not Thor_ —but _Loki_ will be the one to finish what Father started, prove himself to be his true son.  And then everything will be just like Loki dreams.

 

Father will awake when he does his duty, he’s certain.  He will awake and Mother will be seated beside him.  She will say, “Welcome back,” and there will be tears of happiness in her eyes.  Father will get up, and he may sway a little, but that is only because he is still a little tired, and he doesn’t know yet.  But Mother will take his arm and guide him down the halls.

 

Servants will bow as he passes, and the people will cheer, because they love him so, their King.  They will make way for him in the halls and follow him down, and Mother will smile until her face hurts.  She will lead him to the great hall, and there, seated on the dais, will be Loki.  He will see Father, and his eyes will light.  He will stand—Loki likes this part best—and go to help Father up to the dais.

 

“Father,” he will say.  “Welcome home.”

 

Father will sit down, and everyone will clap.  That’s when Loki will hand over the spear, settle it into Father’s grasp.  “I have destroyed Jotunheim,” Loki will say, because even in his imagination the words rush to leave his mouth.  “I hope you will be proud of me.”

 

And Father will look up at him, into his green eyes.  And this, truly, is his favorite part, because then Father will smile and touch his cheek.  “My son,” he will say.  “I have always been proud of you.”

 

Loki can picture how Father will look at that moment, the moment when he embraces Loki in front of all of Asgard.  It makes his head ache less, to imagine it; it makes his breaths calm, to pretend to feel that embrace ahead of time.

 

Mother will be so proud.  She will be proud of _Loki_ , and not Thor, never Thor, never again Thor.

 

With a small growl, Loki tears himself away from his contemplation of the ruined edifice and walks inside, faster now, his cloak swirling about his heels.

 

The inside of the palace is gaping holes, crumbling walls, the deep lines cut into the rock wearing away in the snow and the wind.  Loki looks upon it with distaste.  Jotunheim is ugly, a blight upon Yggdrasil, and he must mend that—he _will_ mend that, as soon as he convinces the Jotun King that he is here to help.

 

To that end, he schools his expression to reflect nothing but calm, and then he steps into the throne room.

 

Laufey sits upon the dais—a small, pitiful attempt at recreating the glory of Asgard—and it looks down at Loki from that great height, disdainful red eyes and a monstrous face.

 

“Kill him,” it orders.

 

“After all I’ve done for you?”

 

The King stops, then, and it looks Loki fully in the face for the first time.  Loki wonders whether it remembers him, from Thor’s disastrous invasion attempt, or if Laufey, like everything else in the Nine Realms, had noticed the elder and ignored the younger.

 

“So you’re the one who showed us the way into Asgard,” Laufey says slowly.  Its red eyes sharpen, now _looking_ at Loki, really looking, and Loki has to keep his face from contorting.

 

_(When he was small, he used to have nightmares about frost giants.  They would come in through the doors and murder his parents, push a spear into Mother’s belly and cut Father’s throat.  And then they would walk into the room where Thor and Loki slept, where they huddled together on Thor’s bed, Loki clutching, clutching and screaming, screeching when they tore Thor from his grasp and gutted him, digging a cruel stone knife into his soft skin.)_

 

“It was just a bit of fun, really,” Loki admits.  The rush to say this is heady, his mind swirling around inside of his skull.  “To ruin my brother’s big day.”  He smiles, then, because oh, the look on Thor’s _face_.  “And to protect the realm from his idiotic rule for a while longer.”

 

The Jotun King appreciates this; it has a great, immobile face, but its eyes are easy to read—too easy.  It says, “I will hear you.”

 

And here— _here_ is the moment he has been waiting for, dying for, and Loki has to start moving or he will explode from excitement.  “I will conceal you,” he begins, “and a handful of your soldiers, lead you into Odin’s chambers and you can slay him where he lies.”

 

He sees the moment the idea catches hold, but still the beast hesitates.  “Why not kill him yourself?”

 

Loki tries to stifle his hysterical laughter— _kill his own Father?_   “I suspect the Asgardians would not take kindly to a king who had _murdered_ his _predecessor_.”  And now for the trump card, his winning play—“Once Odin is dead I will return the Casket to you—”

 

Immediately, Laufey stands, and Loki carefully does not smile.  All of his dreams will come true.

 

“—and you can return Jotunheim to all its… ah… _glory_.”  Only then does he allow the manic grin onto his face, though of course the Jotun King will not understand, monster that it is.

 

Laufey, too, twitches its horrible face into a smile, if Loki doesn’t know what a smile is supposed to look like.  It says, “I accept.”

 

_(wHEn hE Was sMaLL, He usED TO HAve NIghTmArES aBoUT fROst GiaNTS.)_

 

“Loki,” growls a deep voice, and suddenly Loki is standing in the very same room, but he is bare and his skin prickles.  A different monster is up on the dais, and he shrinks away automatically, but his feet will not move.

 

Somehow, though the dais is still there, the roof has fallen in and the snow swirls about the assembled monsters.  Some are missing arms, others legs or hands or feet, and for some reason he thinks that there ought to be _more_ of them.  Several more feminine shapes linger in the background, their faces hard.  Not far from where Loki stands is a great hole in the snow, and it is bottomless.  He has to stop looking at it because it makes him want to throw up.

 

The small assembly is grim, every face set in hard lines, red eyes blazing, all of them focused on the creature on the dais.  It is even taller than the rest, if such a thing is possible, with familiar lines etched onto its skin.  Heart beating like a frightened rabbit’s, Loki realizes that they are the same markings that decorated Laufey’s face and body.

 

What does it _mean?_

 

“Is this everyone?” says the huge beast.

 

“Yes, my liege,” murmurs another one, the one that stands closest to the throne, and he bows his great bald head.

 

With a sickening swoop in the region of his stomach, Loki recognizes their voices.

 

Helbindi nods once in satisfaction and looks over the assembled monsters.  He gets to his feet with a crunch, and the others immediately dip their heads in a sign of respect.  At least, the men do—the women stay standing, hard gazes unflinching.  None of them have children following at their heels.

 

Loki’s head is beginning to hurt.

 

“My subjects,” says Helbindi, “my friends.  You all know why we are here.”

 

The monsters answer with growls of their own, rumbling low in their chests, and Loki has never seen so much hate.  It coils in the air and tries to choke him.

 

“Tonight, we leave for Midgard.”  Helbindi steps off the dais and walks among his subjects, all of whom shuffle aside to make way for him.  “We will avenge the wrongs done to our people.  We may not be able to save Jotunheim, but—” and here he looks at the women, meeting their eyes squarely.

 

“Avenge it,” one of them says.  She is younger than the rest, and there is a deep scar across her belly.  Her deep voice trembles.  “Avenge the deaths of our husbands and our sons and our daughters.”

 

Helbindi bows his own head to her, and the other women cluster about her.  One reaches up to touch her shoulder.

 

“Kill him,” she orders.  “Or don’t dare come back at all.”

 

“We swear,” Helbindi promises.  Behind him, the huge men nod and snarl.  One cracks his knuckles; another summons a handful of ice out of nowhere.

 

The women look pleased, Helbindi less so.

 

“Hold,” he orders sternly, turning to face the men.  “We may not use brute strength in this enterprise, do you understand?  We must try to think.”

 

Abashed, the giants all shuffle their feet and all signs of ice disappear.

 

“We follow the plan,” Helbindi continues, not moving.  His stillness is an anchor that draws them all in—even the women, their eyes fixed hungrily on Helbindi’s back, and even Loki, who stands there trembling, his hands pressed to his face.  “The first man to disobey his orders will be disposed of personally.”  He looks around at their faces, and they meet his gaze squarely, accepting the challenge.  “We draw him in, just like I have explained.  And then, when the time comes, we may grant Loki something sweet as death, if we are feeling particularly generous.”

 

The roars of the crowd shake the roof, rattling Loki’s teeth in his mouth, and he can hardly comprehend what he is hearing, because this is that nightmare back again and it’s _real_ , it has to be real, Helbindi and his men and women are real, somewhere out there in the cosmos, but—

 

But—

 

But what does any of that have to do with _him?_

 

“Bring him back!” the woman screams over the sounds of celebration.  “Let us have a go, my King—little cuts for every child he has murdered.”

 

“Perhaps an eye, so he will match his _chosen father_ ,” another suggests.

 

“Spread his legs like the whore he is,” says a man towards the back, and everyone laughs.  Even Helbindi summons up a cruel smile.

 

“So we are agreed?” he asks.  “To Midgard?”

 

Loki is lost in the roar and the rush of bodies, and suddenly he finds himself alone in utter blackness, except for a mirror propped up in front of him.  He can see his frightened face and shaking limbs.

 

He wears nothing but a loincloth, and he feels exposed and vulnerable.  He tries to turn, but still he cannot move, cannot make any effort at escape.  All he can do is look into his own eyes, wide, green gems set into his thin face.

 

“Foolish child,” says a voice, and Loki starts violently.  Laufey appears over his shoulder, too tall to fit entirely in the mirror’s depths, but the cold radiating from his skin causes no goosebumps to appear.  “Did you honestly think that murdering us all would make you worthy?”

 

He drops his heavy hand onto Loki’s shoulder.  Horrified, shaking, his legs threatening to buckle, Loki watches as blue travels outwards from the spread of Laufey’s fingers, drawing out dark lines and sharp teeth until finally even his eyes are swallowed in red.

 

“What have you _done_ to me?” Loki shouts, trying to shake him off, but Laufey just laughs and laughs.

 

“I am simply showing you the truth, Liesmith,” he says.  “ _Son_.”

 

Loki looks at the monster in the mirror—at the lines on his skin, the same as Laufey’s, the same as Helbindi’s—and opens his mouth and screams and screams and screams, his jaw opening wider and wider until it swallows his head and he remembers—

 

_You can’t kill an entire race!_

_that race of monsters—_

_Fight me!_

_maybe, when we’re finished here, I’ll go and pay her a visit myself!_

 

—looking up at Father’s face, dangling from the Bifrost, all of his plans wrecked and dead and gone to ruin, and screaming, “I could have done it, Father!  I could have done it!  For you!  For all of us.”

 

And Father said, “No, Loki.”

 

And Loki fell.

 

(Loki wakes.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: In which Oats actually can get the plot moving. Probably.


	14. Act XIII: The Traitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperately, hopelessly, he wishes to feel nothing at all, to watch Thor hurt with the dispassionate distance he has always feigned.
> 
> (In which the chapter is shorter than usual but there are many feels.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for Lady Charity, Anna, Generation-Loki, 100indecisions, NocturneFox, and YellowWomanontheBrink, who all commented on the last chapter, even though I did not act like I heard them; for every one of you who still gave this work kudos, even though it had not been updated in months; and for everyone who even bothered to read this since I vanished, even though it looked abandoned. You guys are the best readers a girl could ever hope to have.

Loki wakes like a spitting, screaming monster, erupting into movement so sudden that he manages, somehow, to wrench himself out of bed and onto the floor, cracking his shoulder painfully against the bedside table. But that pain is slight and dull compared to the tearing where his heart ought to be, if he were a real person and not a _frost giant._

So he’s clutching at the ground with rigid fingers, half spitting and half sobbing, and he supposes that, dimly, he registers other noise and movements around him, but they seem impossibly distant, more like a dream than the dream he just woke from. But then, it wasn’t a dream, was it? It was _memory._

“Loki!” says Thor, suddenly close, his hand gripping his shoulder, and he is so very warm that Loki, paradoxically, freezes, fearing that he is about to melt. “Brother, what—”

Then Loki comes to his senses, violently. “ _Get away from me!_ ” he screams, pushes and claws at Thor with a strength he didn’t know he had, wishing he could kick, wishing he had a knife to stick in Thor’s perfect little neck. “Get the _fuck_ away from me!”

Thor must be shocked, he must be, because he falls back in confusion, instead of clinging to Loki yet more tightly, and someone—the mortal—turns on the lanterns, bathing the entire scene in sickly yellow light. Loki can’t see him from his shameful position on the floor, but he can imagine his stupid, befuddled face, creased with sleep; it’s only matched by the expression slapped on Thor’s features. His beloved _brother_ clearly isn’t up to date on the situation, as per usual. Loki honestly doesn’t even know why he’s surprised anymore.

“Are you well?” Thor attempts, blue eyes beseeching. “It is I, brother, you must—”

The wild feeling claws its way up his throat, almost choking him. He fights the urge to clutch at his neck and only wins because the urge to throttle Thor is stronger. He gets a hand hooked around the edge of the table and drags himself into a sitting position, so he’s not rolling around the ground, forever and always below Thor, and the oaf falls silent as he struggles, leaning forward like he wants nothing more than to _help_ Loki.

He doesn’t try to hide his hysterical laughter at the thought; it comes out mad, straining, filtered through his tears until it’s unclear whether he’s laughing or crying. Even Loki can’t tell the difference.

“Brother?” Thor says, pleading.

“Don’t _call_ me that!” Loki yells. His hand catches a book lying on the table and flings it at Thor’s head. Even hurt like this, his aim is impeccable, and it bounces off Thor’s stupid forehead. Thor doesn’t react except to slowly pick the book off the floor, his expression frozen. The strange clear wrapper crinkles against his fingers.

The mortal appears around the bed, clad in a pair of sweatpants, his face grizzled and confused, just as Loki imagined it, and suddenly he remembers looking through the Destroyer’s eyes at this same man and the two girls, watching as Thor stepped away from Asgard, away from _him,_ all to protect three little gnats. Because, as always, everyone else was more important to Thor than Loki, and he couldn’t—he’d never meant—but Thor didn’t _understand_ what it was like to be a _lie,_ because Thor didn’t know _how_ to lie, and at the end of it all, Thor proved that nothing Loki did would ever be of use to anyone. When Thor became king, Sif and the Warriors Three would be his trusted generals, and the mortal girl would be his queen, and Loki would be completely, utterly useless.

He loses it, the familiar taste of madness at the back of his throat, screams so tendons strain against his skin. Manages to pick up the strange lamp and make a reasonable attempt at throwing it at Thor as well; a cord attached to the back prevents it from going far, and it falls to the ground instead with a crash. There’s broken glass on the floor. Loki finds he does not much care.

He curls up into himself instead, weak, shameful tears wetting his cheeks, and he covers his face with shaking hands. It hurts. All of the shouting shortens his breath, and he labors against it—he imagines, for a moment, that he will stop and faint dead away. It is but a passing fancy, easy to push aside. If he falls—again—then Thor, _stupid Thor_ , will forget all about this outburst and believe himself to be in the right once more.

“Loki,” says Thor then, hesitant, wary. He sounds like he’s getting closer, probably holding out one hand, eyes begging him to forget this, to let Thor help.

Help!

“ _Get away from me_ ,” Loki snarls. He goes for the lamp again; weakened as he is, it is a simple matter to tear the black cord from the wall, though he cuts his hand on glass in the process. Dark blood wells and slips across his wrist.

Thor makes a noise, his eyebrows crumpled together, and makes a desperate move in Loki’s direction. He is armed merely with a Midgardian contraption, yes, but Loki has been trained in combat as well, and it takes little thought to hit Thor with the lamp, cracking him across the cheek with the metal base.

And Thor staggers sideways, almost, more from shock than the actual strength of Loki’s blow, falls against the bed, so his stupid head fails to collide with anything hard. Loki’s hands are shaking; he is gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw aches. Holding onto the lamp is hard, so hard, but Thor looks at him with eyes so blue with hurt, so he pulls it to his chest instead, breathing in small, sharp gasps.

“Loki,” Thor says again, and he does not boom, as he usually does. His hand curls against the awfully-patterned covers. He does not look like a god of anything.

“Go away.” He is still crying. He wants to stop. Desperately, hopelessly, he wishes to feel nothing at all, to watch Thor hurt with the dispassionate distance he has always feigned. But, more than ever, it is not true. He hates Thor—he loves him. He loves Thor—he hates him.

Loki wants that to _stop_. To feel nothing for Thor would be the greatest blessing he can think of.

At least Thor does not try to touch him again. He just sits there, _looking_ at him, blue eyes burning, until he cannot stand it one more minute—Loki hates himself for being able to read Thor’s face so clearly—and directs his stare at the floor. He is still, so very still, like if he moves he will shatter into a million pieces.

Absudly, Loki thinks, _Much like the Bifrost after it_ —and then he laughs. He hates laughing. If he uses up all of this air he will faint and he will lose every advantage that he has—not that he has many advantages in the first place. His chest hurts. He wants to rip it open and empty it out, get rid of everything, and then he will be hollow and safe and looking at Thor so broken will stir not one ounce of guilt.

He is so focused on Thor’s stillness that the banging on the door scares him half to death; he almost drops the lamp that he has fought so hard to keep. The mortal man emerges from the bath—Loki had not even noticed his flight—and opens the door without first unhooking the chain. The door jars, bangs, and he clumsily tries to rectify his mistake. On the other side are the mortal girls, as he had expected, sleep-rumpled and confused.

For a moment, Loki cannot bear to look at them. The memory of that insignificant town is suddenly oppressive, clamping his chest in a vise, so he can hardly breathe or think. Thor chose these gnats over him, foolish, sentimental oaf that he is, and for one wild second he wishes that he had killed them all—Thor, the girls, all of them.

But he cannot sustain his rage, or wish for longer than that moment that they all lay dead, so he is struck dumb in confusion right as the girl with failing eyesight says, “What’s going on? A bad dream?”

Loki remembers her lectures on the pictures in the magic box. And the woman next to her, who has made an art of looking concerned, trying to be helpful. Or the man, getting them all these rooms, staying near even when Loki wakes him up every night. He wants to hate them and is anguished to find that he can’t.

He turns back to Thor in confusion, because he cannot bear that the man knows how he has found himself again, and discovers that Thor is weeping, very quietly, his cheek pressed against the bed. Abruptly, Loki is furious. How dare Thor be sad? After what happened, he has no _right_ —

“Stop!” Loki orders, high and shrill. The man is trying to herd the girls back out the door, forgetting his shirt, or his shoes, which sit by the table with the magic box. He wants them to go away in the same breath that he wants them to come back. “You have _no right_ ,” he says because his words are gone, and as quickly as his rage surfaced it has been drowned again in a wave of grief. He is struck low; he is crippled.

The door clicks shut—the man has gotten them away, to safety. Perhaps they will flee entirely.

This is utterly Thor’s fault. It must be. Striking out like a wounded animal, Loki hisses, “I wish you had left me to die!” and in that moment he means it.

Thor looks up at him then, anguished. “Brother,” he cries. “I could never. You should never say that.” Thor, who has never learned to lie, who of course says only what he means, and means what he says. Thor, who would comfort Loki when they were small, barely up to Father’s knee, and he had nightmares of frost giants breaking in, and there was blood, so much blood—but Thor would hold him tight, and pet his hair, and whisper, “They would never do that. We would defeat them, you and I.” His brother. His big brother. He would go to sleep because he knew that as long as he had Thor, he would be safe.

“I hate you,” Loki insists, “I hate you.” It is easier than trying to understand this raging tempest inside of him. “Just leave me alone. I never wanted to see you again.”

Thor’s face crumples in on itself, the words hitting harder than Loki’s fists ever could, and suddenly Loki is dizzy with confusion, bewildered, awash with the conviction that he was confused these past months, maybe these past decades. He was confused, it was confusing. And now he can see that he has hurt Thor, badly, and he does not know how to respond.

“Loki,” says Thor, agonized, though he does not reach out. “How can you say this? You are my little brother. My—”

“Stop,” says Loki, dropping the lamp finally to press his hands to his ears. He does not want to hear Thor say it again. It feels like he has taken a priceless artifact and smashed it because he had not seen it in the light of day, and did not realize how beautiful it was. “Stop. Do not say it. I forbid you to say it!” His tears are hot on his freezing cheeks.

“I beg you,” says Thor, though he does not explain. “Loki!” He is hurt and beseeching all at once, just like the moment when he looked down at Loki, hanging off into space, and saw what he meant to do. Thor did not care, at that moment, that Loki had attempted genocide, and threatened the mortal woman, and done his very best to kill him.

“No,” Loki pleads. “I forbid it.” He hates Thor—he loves him. He loves Thor—he hates him.

They sit like that for hours. They do not speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a pretty terrible year since this has been updated. (Honestly, I'm surprised I got as far as I did.) I dropped out of school and went home-- which was probably for the best, but it did not stop my spiral of depression. I'm not really ready to deal with or think about what happened pretty much for the past two years, but-- on the upside-- I've somehow found myself out the other end of that tunnel, which is pretty great.
> 
> I'm very flattered that you guys kept reading and commenting and kudo-ing (is that even a word?). This is shorter than my usual chapter length by two pages, but for some reason the Plot Progression here in my outline consisted of just the one scene. And I figured a shorter chapter is better than no chapter, right?
> 
> Anyway-- I won't promise quick updates, since I'm back in school and there is homework to be done. But I think it's safe to say I'm back in the game. (Someone was wondering in the comments-- I am actually back on tumblr, but I made a new account because my old friends on there sort of traumatized me and I couldn't bear it. I'm covered-in-flowers-and-trumpets now.)
> 
> NEXT TIME ON "BAD DECISIONS COME BACK TO BITE US": OUR PLOTS CONVERGE


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